Perspective

“For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been known.”

-1 Corinthians 13:12

Perspective is something I forget about in busy seasons when I have a goal ahead of me. Whether in work or at home, I have to make myself stop and ask the question, “What would this person think about that? Who else can I ask to help me make the right choice?”

Some goals are far off and I have a picture of them in my mind. As I get closer, I see more clearly the goodness and ways I need to better prepare as I reach that destination. If the goal is something optional, I might even slow down the work I am doing to get there once I see it as nearly achieved or I might do the opposite and race to the finish line. My perspective shifts as I get closer. I either speed up or slow down based on how my new perspective impacts me. 

On my way to Niagara Falls, I was moderately excited. I heard mixed reviews. Some folks found it breathtaking. Others told me it was not all it is cracked up to be. I was excited but cautious to raise my expectations so that I would not be let down. 

The day of my scheduled Maid of the Mist tour, I was picked up by some wonderful friends of my stepmom who used to lead tours. Little did I know what was in store for me! They drove me through different parts of Buffalo, New York with stories about presidential history, notes about what companies used to own which buildings, information about famous architects who crafted beautiful homes on Delaware Ave, and all the sweet memories from being a local that I longed to hear. 

When I thought we were about to arrive at Niagara Falls, a pit stop was made at an exhibit about the falls. We walked through and I learned geographical history, as well as about the disagreement between famous inventors on how to harness the great power produced by the waters flowing under my feet atop the dam. My guide pointed out certain structures and landmarks as a reminder to “remember that” for something he would tell me later. 

My perspective was shifting and my excitement mounting. I was snapping photos the whole time. After each photo, I would look down as my phone and think, That is spectacular! 

Finally, we arrived at the American falls and purchased our tickets. We entered the elevator and plunged to the base of the bluff where we would climb aboard a catamaran. The well known Maid of the Mist waited for the people decked out in blue branded ponchos that cut down the wind chill more than I expected. 

More pictures. I could see the falls! They were magnificent, powerful beacons ahead. My guide told me where to stand. I knew, by now, to listen to him because he KNEW his stuff. My view was subpar at the start but still cool. I trusted my guide and held onto the rail fiercely as the water began to churn beneath us the closer we got to the falls. 

Progressively, mist covered me. We were right there! The water was crashing down and, though I could only see my little corner of them, the falls were wonderful. Photos could not do it justice so I just stared in wonder. Then, the boat turned. All of a sudden, I had the best view on the boat. The boat slowly turned me to the full width of the falls!

I was awe struck. The clouds parted. The sun began to shine a direct beam over me at the foot of the rushing falls. I could not believe the timing of this moment. 

Once we pulled a little further away from the falls, I still had a stellar view. I pulled out my phone and got the BEST photos of the day. I thought my earlier shots were spectacular. Oh, past me had no clue what she was in for that day. My perspective had changed completely. Nothing anybody said could have prepared me for the moment the sun broke through the clouds and thousands of gallons of water crashed over the falls right in front of me. 

Here is the spiritual turn (for those who saw this coming). I prayed on that boat a simple Wow and Thank You, Lord. On the walk up the stairs after we disembarked, I prayed some more private things and felt a reminder that I do not see right now what I will see one day.

There are areas of my life where I have glimpsed the goal and stalled out, thinking the view from the shore was good enough or it would be impossible to actually get where I want to be. There are life choices in which I am aboard the boat, gripping the rail and so close to the purpose that I can feel its mist on my face. In those spaces, I often am ready to jump ship or turn back, worn and tired. 

The fresh reminder for my soul from the bottom of Niagara Falls is to hold on. 

Hold on, Hannah.

In the strength and joy of Jesus, I believe I can do just that. My expectations are shifting with the perspective from my seat today. My Guide in heaven has my back and I just need to follow His lead, trust his direction, and wait for the beauty. 

Elisabeth Elliot wrote and spoke often about doing the next thing. My next thing is holding on. While that will have a variety of action steps, I can do it. It is possible to just take the next step, and then another. I bet you can, too. There is beauty in this moment but the beauty ahead is worth waiting for on the journey.

In the Love of Christ, 

Hannah 

At a Gravestone Releases 1/5/24

‘Twas the night after Christmas and over my couch…

lie piles of laundry in my ruckus-filled house.

The room I had tried to prepare for my Lord was still not quite finished as I came to adore Him.

And yet, He is come, whether ready or not, to this heart at the foot of His wondrous cross.

He does cast our sin and kindly enters in as I sing a sweet song of Bethlehem.

Closer and slower, I hug my sweet child, and think of my Lord, both tender and mild.

He is near and He knows the depths of my soul where true rest can be found in His presence alone.

Merry Nights-After-Christmas, dear ones.

In the Love of Christ,

Hannah

Every song is a story…

that has arrived to the audience in a different way, with a different tune, than if it had been told with only ink on paper or a tired voice after dinner around a friendly table. Over the past couple of weeks, I have taken to social media to share a little bit of the story behind some of the songs on my new EP — my first full recorded music project as a performing singer-songwriter — entitled I’ve Got More.

NEW MUSIC

Thanksgiving

The two weeks before Thanksgiving, Flu A hit my family of six. One by one my kiddos passed the bug to each other. By the time my toddler had it, this worn out mama could not dodge the virus.

To say those four days were unpleasant is an understatement. Having a fever as an adult is not fun at all! Everything on the schedule for those days was set aside and I find myself still catching up.

After reading my Advent devotional this morning, I am compelled to finish a hearty item from that list: this blog post. Ruth Chou Simons is a favorite artist and author of mine. She breathes sound theology from her deep personal walk with the Lord into everything she says and does. My appreciation for her grows daily, in this season especially, as I read her Advent devotional Emmanuel.

Today’s reading taught on thanksgiving and admonished me to respond to the Lord in praise, even in the midst of hurried holiday schedules. This unfinished writing was the first item in my mind as I turned to pray. My own intentionally planned season of giving thanks was interrupted, not just by the flu but by life. Life simply panned out differently than I had hoped or anticipated over the past month. Many things were accomplished and parenting strides were made but they were not the one’s I had planned.

Interruptions are still spaces for the fruitful work of God in our lives. How many historical moments in the Gospels were the direct result of interruptions along the way to somewhere else? A less cluttered version of my mind would stop and list here every moment I have seen this in scripture but there is one pressing my heart while the clock presses my writing time.

“While Jesus was saying these things, a synagogue leader came and knelt before Him. “My daughter has just died,” he said. “But come and place Your hand on her, and she will live.”

So Jesus got up and went with him, along with His disciples. Suddenly a woman who had suffered from bleeding for twelve years came up behind Him and touched the fringe of His cloak. She said to herself, “If only I touch His cloak, I will be healed.” Jesus turned and saw her. “Take courage, daughter,” He said, “your faith has healed you.” And the woman was cured from that very hour.

Matthew 9:18-24

It does not seem to matter how often I read this passage or hear it taught, I am still caught by the reality that Jesus did not rebuke interruptions. He was speaking just before verse 18 starts when he is possibly interrupted by a synagogue leader in need of his healing power. Jesus gets up to go with him and yet again is interrupted by a hemorrhaging woman. He heals her on his way to heal another.

While we must make intentional efforts to set aside time for rest and sabbath, I fear I often miss the healing moments that come as interruptions to my daily life. Every mother I know would like to take a weekend away. A weekend off in the mountains to refresh our souls, drink a whole coffee while it is hot, and finish our thoughts completely would be such a refreshment for all of us!

But, that getting away, can become and idol in my own life. It can stop me from living out my renewing and refreshing faith in God day to day when I forget that the everlasting well of living water flows in me even as I stumble over a toddler in the kitchen floor or drive through rush hour home from work. I have to stop and take a breath. God is with me, always. That means His healing power and comforting spirit are at work.

Right now, I have let my Christmas card mailing morning be interrupted by finishing (or completely rewriting) this blog because I must pause and give thanks. I praise the Lord who cures a woman the very hour of her most desperate need. I praise the Lord who has somehow made it better to be in a house of mourning than of mirth (Ecclesiastes 7:2-3). I give thanks to the God who is the only one worthy of any praise at all, pure and holy for eternity.

I will sing the song this blog was supposed to be about as I drive to work now and I hope it will also lift your spirits, maybe interrupt your day, to sing along to words found in Revelation 7 with the eternal choruses of heaven.

Here is Thanksgiving, a song from my heart to thank the Lord for who He is.

In the Love of Christ,

Hannah

Place Like Tennessee

I love Tennessee. It is where my mama settled when she came from Ethiopia in the 80’s. It is where my paternal grandparents made a home when they came from Georgia and Alabama to attend a university, where they eventually met each other and married, in Nashville.

While the “greenest state in the land of the free” has always been home base, we have moved away from her three times. We came back for the second time in 2018, just in time for the holidays. What was supposed to be a short visit home over the holidays turned into a more permanent move back to the state when we were not able to get visas to return to our home in Ireland under new immigration laws.

That next January, we settled into a cozy cubbyhole of the Smokies in Del Rio, Tennessee - right next to the real Rocky Top! One early morning, as I drove from Sevierville back to my East Tennessee home, the words to this song started drifting along to the fog lifting off the dewy, green grass along the roadside.

“There is a green…” I sang and drove. It seems like drive-time is a when I do an awful lot of singing and a whole lot of praying. The words kept on coming and so did the tune. It became my travel song that I would hum on the road.

We moved to Georgia a while later. It was not until the third move home that I decided to really share this song. Moving back to Tennessee the third time was different. I was bringing my little family back to my big family. We were coming home to grandparents, parents, aunts, uncles, and cousins all in new stages of life. We came home with purpose.

My grandparents were a piece of my purpose in coming home. Life is busy but living hours away only made spending time with them even harder. This move home made it possible to be close in case of urgent needs and for more frequent visits. I wanted to share this song with them!

My granddaddy traveled all over the world for work when I was growing up. Hearing about the places he went when we were little was so exciting to me. There came a point, though, where he was done with travel. It was time to stay home. He had worked hard and I remember him telling me on a drive at his East Tennessee lake-house that he would be happy to live there, sitting on the porch each morning and looking out. He was ready to stay put and be home.

And I had been far off for long enough to miss a few moments that were so special. One birthday dinner, I remember seeing the picture of my family out to dinner where Granddaddy had shared this scripture:

“Children's children are the crown of old men; and the glory of children are their fathers.”

- Proverbs 17:6

He shared that all of us grandchildren were jewels on his crown. I tearfully smiled as I looked on at my own four children as the crown jewels of their fore-bearers. My grandmother’s voice saying, “Love you, little sweethearts!” about my children is one of my favorite parts of my family’s story.

So, I sat down with my husband and my father-in-law with a couple of guitars. I sang the song to them and they played along. It is was so fun to listen to them translate the little tune I had sung in my head into a real song. They thoughtfully picked out the musical parts I had only ever hummed to myself on I-40.

This song has been a real family affair! We took it into the studio because I wanted to be able to share it with my grandparents in a real way. My husband and father-in-law did what they do. Our friend Shawn helped build it out into a the full, warm track being released TODAY! While my CD-burner is lost to the ages, I hope Grandmama and Granddaddy Bear enjoy listening to it online and sharing it with their friends.

The last verse is where I will finish this story. For many Christians, the life of missionary work - traveling far off to the unreached places of the world - is idealized and admired highly. It is difficult in ways that living your life in your own country and culture is not. It is a necessary, worthy calling but it is not the only one.

When we believers are commanded in scripture to make disciples of all nations, our own nations are included. Sharing the Light of the World does not have to mean learning a new language and moving across the world, unless that is what the Lord commissions you to do. More often, we believers in Christ are called to share the Truth right where we are - no matter where we are. Bear the Light, everywhere, because sometimes the ends of the earth are called home.

I hope you enjoy the story song this tale has made: Place Like Tennessee.

In the Love of Christ,

Hannah

Granddaddy Bear - 75th Birthday

Grandmama and I at the Cliffs of Moher

Harvest - The Story

Today, I want to share the story of my new song Harvest with you. It is the first song I released in my Coming Home series of songs. It has been out streaming for a little over a week and what fun, unexpected experiences it has already led to! I knew, as I sang the lines to my own weary soul, that I could not be the only person that needed the soothing encouragement I felt in writing them.

The tumult of moving my family for the fourth time in five years, my faith was stronger than ever but my endurance at doing the actual tasks involved was at an all-time low. My husband and I agreed that we were surviving, not thriving. We hoped it would be only a season. Things would get easier. We would settle, again. We would move into more proverbial space to build a steady, faithful life in which to raise our girls. They are the focus.

Yet, I was worn out. The reality of laying down our recent jobs that we worked so hard to build only to start over again in a new space racked my brain as I drove to work each day. I wondered what would become of the ministry we had laid down. I pondered where the last healthcare facility I had left would be in a year. It can be hard to pass the baton, especially when you do not see clearly whose hand is reaching to take it up from your own.

And, there, Harvest came to my mind. I started to sing to myself the things I most needed to be reminded of: we all have a time and a place to serve in certain areas but eventually it must be passed on. Just as I was stepping into a new nursing role, another nurse was stepping out of theirs. Just as we laid down the reins to a ministry, another couple would come along and pick them up. Moses, himself, never made it into the promised land. He passed the mantle of leadership on, and for good reasons.

I sang the first line, “I’ll reap a harvest from seeds you have sown.” I sang it to myself but I imagined someone else singing it to me. The person reaching out for the baton I passed behind me, admonishing my heart that all the work was not in vain. All the love and dedication and prayer and perseverance was not for nothing. The apostle Paul came to mind, admonishing the Corinthian church that it is not just one man’s job to lead and shepherd them. Paul said to them in 1 Corinthians 3:6-8,

“I planted the seed, Apollos watered it, but God made it grow. So neither he who plants nor he who waters is anything, but only God, who makes things grow. The man who plants and the man who waters have one purpose, and each will be rewarded according to his own labor.”

The song flowed on in my driving prayer, “Though you may not see it, I want you to know. The seeds that you’re planting now are promised to bloom. And I’ll reap a harvest then because of you”.

Stored safely in my voice notes application on my phone, I re-listened to this melody and felt lighter. It amazes me how songs of prayer help us to truly lay our burdens at the foot of the cross.

My husband had been piddling around on the guitar one evening shortly after this song came to mind. As I listened to him play, it struck me that he was playing the same song I had been singing in the car. We sang and played along together and there was no doubt, this song was a stamp sealing the truths of our hearts’ needs in Christ for this very season of transition.

Harvest would come, even if we would not get to see it. Likewise, we will harvest from the sowing work of others before us. This Kingdom work is a shared endeavor. It is God who makes it grow. It is also God who chooses the task for the servant. Following Him is what matters. He knows our hearts and our capacity. We can’t escape Him (Psalm 138:7).

Trusting God to know my very heart and capacity can be both a relief and a fearful reality all at once. What I mean by this is that there is great comfort in knowing that the gracious Author of my story knows everything bound up in my heart. While there is comfort in this, there is also a healthy fear. He really knows it all. He knows my own motives better than I do. He knows every side of every story and, by some miracle, He still loves each of us and desires to be in relationship with us. What?! This fills me with a humbling fear that is quickly turned to merciful joy every time I think on these things!

This very truth is what I fixed my mind on as I sang, “You did the best you could and, in Him, it is good.”

The next weekend at church, the pastor preached on Mark 14. He taught through the woman pouring perfume on Jesus and how those around him rebuked her, judging her actions, motives, and wisdom in doing this. When the pastor read the first part of verse 8 out loud, tears poured from my eyes.

“She has done what she could…” (excerpt from Mark 14:8)

Jesus knew what she could do. He would not have made this firm statement if he did not. He knew what she could do. She did what she could. My heart shifted upon hearing that. This woman does the best she can to honor her Lord and ends up doing more than she could have planned or imagined. Her action serves a greater purpose than simply coming to honor and adore Him, but was the anointing of oil that prepared him for his coming burial - a hurried burial into a borrowed tomb.

How many times have I wondered if I did all I could do? Probably more times than I care to admit. But there is comfort from the Creator - the Eternal Gardener - that the seeds that should grow will do just that. He is present, near, active. We keep on sowing, watering, weeding, and harvesting. We do the best we can. He fills in the gaps, and then some.

The song came together. Harvest flowed from my own need to be reminded of truth and I pray that it keeps flowing out to do healing, restorative work in the hearts of it’s hearers.

Thank you for reading along.

In the Love of Christ,

Hannah

Coming Home

My first day back in Nashville, I mapped out a route to pick up all of the items I had purchased through online yard sales.

A little context would tell you that my family had just made the decision to move home to Tennessee after following peace-filled paths over the past five years. Those five years added stamps to our passports and zip codes to our background checks that continue to impact us in the most meaningful ways. We roamed and wandered, trying to put down roots but always finding ourselves transplanted just when our heartstrings would most feel the tug of uprooting.

January of 2022 came and it was time to come home.

I was born just off West End, like just about everyone else I grew up alongside in this small-town-big-city. My first day home turned out to be a tour of all those growing up years. The addresses on the notepad there on my center console did not mean much to me as I scribbled them down. I simply turned on my most recently built playlist called “Country Roads Home” and asked the Lord to make my drive efficient. I had three of my four kiddos waiting for me back at my mama’s house.

The songs played and I drove. I smiled warmly as my first driveway pickup was in the neighborhood my parents brought me home to as a toddling girl. Back on the road, a full blown laugh burst from my smile a few times as I passed memorable parking lots and restaurants from my less-than-glorious adolescence. A puzzled and curious look crossed my face as I remembered why the next address seemed so familiar.

I slowly wound my way around a hillside church that hosted one of the most pivotal moments in my life. Tears brimmed my eyes and a softer grin graced my face as I turned my left blinker on. I pulled onto the street where I lived every other weekend before I ever knew how to drive. I could not have remembered that address or the number on that condominium door but I knew the roads. The lamp that waited for me across the street from another of my “old houses” was the last thing on my mind. Pausing in the middle of what should have been a busy street, I stared and asked the Lord, “What are you doing?”

A few moments of quiet contemplation passed and I remembered the tall lamp with the right shade waiting across the street. I loaded it in and expectantly typed in the next address. It was nearly evening on a February day and I really did hope to be home before sunset.

My GPS navigated me back towards Hillsboro Road from the edge of Brentwood and my curiosity grew. Hillboro Road eventually becomes 21st Ave and I have always said that the whole length of it feels the most like home. I did not make it more than two miles before I had to take a right down a road I had never even noticed before. All the times I had driven that route and I had never seen this hidden road that quickly turned to gravel.

Up I went, switching back and forth up thin, covered roads as the sun started to set. I pulled up to a home on the edge of a bluff to acquire three outdoor nesting tables for my future porch. It was eerily quiet and secluded, tucked on top of a hill I had never noticed. Looking up before me, there was a 180 degree view of my hometown against an orange and red sunset in the west.

I was a bit in awe. The moment felt really special but it was getting dark so I hurriedly placed the tables in the trunk and got back on the road. Something hit me as I drove away and thanked God for such an amazing day of driving all over one of my favorite places. I realized then that I had been worried Nashville would not feel like home anymore.

To be honest, that feeling of home is fleeting for me. It comes in moments and experiences with those I love but it is not something I chase after this side of heaven. Song after song tells of the feeling of home, almost always hearkening back to those first rooms, dinner tables, or porches that have residence in our memories.

I had called so many places “home” and feared that actually moving back home would feel frustratingly unfamiliar. Nashville has changed and is changing! But, so am I. How very different I am from the girl remembered along these streets I had driven.

That afternoon drive was all it took for me to realize I was not just moving home, I was being called home to Tennessee. It was intentional and God has His purposes for me here. He has had a purpose for me in every moment of my life and every place I have lived. I just needed to keep my eyes open to what would be put before me.

I started singing a few lines over and over again. A very old, familiar stir started and I asked the Lord to do something new with it. The next month was full of commuting long drives to my new job, closing on the sale of our home in Georgia, living with family while we waited for our Tennessee home purchase to be finalized, and keeping our family going in the midst of big changes. Voice notes with melodies and whispered words filled my phone along the way.

In all of my coming home, I became reacquainted with pieces of myself that had not flourished in recent seasons. I slowed down enough to engage singing for fun and for prayer instead of always to prepare or lead someone else. Music started flowing again and our new home stayed full of story songs to encourage our souls as we unpacked more than just boxes from all that these years of ministry and moving have done in us. Singing and writing was fun, again!

I nervously shared a song that was helping me to a friend going through a similar transition in her own life. Her admonishment kick started what I want to share this month. Three songs have brought particular gladness and joy to my soul in this time of coming home. Writing them, recording them with my family, and sharing them with my loved ones has been so very fun. Now, I want to share them with you!

In the same way that my first day in Nashville took me on a reflective tour down memory lane, I hope the three songs I plan to release in this Coming Home Series serve as reflective, fun, and encouraging moments to tell a small part of my story. I hope you will come along and smile once or twice along the way.

In the Love of Christ,

Hannah

Pre-Save the first song in this series, now! Head here to make sure you don’t miss it!

A Mutual Friend

Arriving at the park, I found myself eager to meet a person I had only heard about. A friend of a friend would be there and I had heard so many wonderful things about her!

Have you ever met someone through a mutual friend? Did you wrestle with knowing so much about a stranger but not actually knowing them for yourself?

Those were the questions that crossed my mind as I met this new person with whom I already had a second-hand familiarity. I suddenly wondered what they knew about me? We were tethered together by a person we both loved! But, I reflected on what I had learned about the person I was meeting and wondered what they had already learned about me?

Was it my strengths or my faults they already knew? Had they heard that I like to sing? Or did they know about the scars of trauma that had marked my life in a season that our mutual friend was so near to me?

The picnic went well. We laughed a lot, maybe cried a little. It was an overall lovely time and I walked away with a new friend.

It does not always go that way. Sometimes we accompany a friend to meet someone new-to-us to help bolster our friend’s confidence: to be their wingman. Sometimes we meet a friend-of-a-friend out and about, maybe staring in the line at a coffee shop because you know that person two spaces ahead of you in line is so-and-so. We wonder if we should say hi or just let the moment slip away.

It can be a little intimidating to meet someone through a mutual friend. A few nights ago, I realized that is how just about everyone I know has met Jesus.

For divinely providential reasons, the knowledge of God has been passed from person to person. While the knowledge of God has a general revelation all around us on this beautiful planet (I mean, I cannot look at a mountain range at sunset without thinking that there was purpose in their construction), there is the revelation of who God is that comes from person after person sharing what they have known. We pass Bibles down in families or out on streets because God seems to delight in His children meeting Him in this way.

There seems, most often, to be an introduction involved in meeting Jesus for the first time.

Jesus pointed out that people would come to believe in Him through the interpersonal sharing of His message. He prayed for those who would believe the message His believers would share (John 17:20-23). That prayer was for all of us who have come to believe, down through the ages, the message of the Savior.

And it was shared through people: flawed, imperfect people saved by grace alone through faith.

But not everyone has shared this message the same way. Some have twisted it to use for their own purposes. Some have watered down the truth of this message to try and make the most satisfying water of life more tasteful, in some way. Some have flat-out lied.

I am not sure if you have ever met someone through a mutual friend and found them to be completely unlike anything your friend told you. While that has happened to me a few times, I have also been the person that was surprisingly unlike what someone was expecting me to be.

It occurred to me this week that there are many people who, when introduced to God, found Him to be something completely other than what they had heard about.

I clearly remember leaving Bible study one day on campus in university to find a man with signs and a megaphone yelling some of the most hateful stuff I had ever heard. He condemned our athletic shorts as we walked by while I saw some of my brothers in Christ lingering on edges of the crowd asking people what they thought about this message. They did their best to undo the damage done by words spoken harshly from a literal pedestal through face-to-face conversation in gentleness. I knew that Bible he was waving around better than ever before and I knew that what this person was saying was unlike much of what Jesus’ message really says.

That was not the case for everyone in that crowd. I felt that, if every time that megaphone preacher shared the message of Christ on campus was like a dinner invitation to meet his friend, no one in that crowd wanted to dine with his Jesus.

I had heard condemnation and shame interwoven with the Gospel of Jesus in my early years. But, when I opened the Word and studied with believers who truly displayed the fruits of God’s Spirit in them, I found that Jesus came to save an already condemned people and to give life abundant, not to condemn them (John 3:16-18). He came to make a way out of darkness into the light! I found that holiness tasted sweeter than anything else in this world simply because it came from the One who created me, who knew what was best for me, and who paid a debt I could never pay on my own.

Oh, it is so hard to unlearn false things we have learned about others! It is difficult to make a new friend and block out what someone told you about them months before. It is uncomfortable to make a second date with a person you think you may have completely misunderstood on the first date. And it is gut wrenching to approach the Father you came to hate (or maybe vehemently believed was not even real) when you start to wonder if He is unlike anything you thought you knew about Him.

It is God’s response to being misunderstood that strikes me most. When Nicodemus came to Jesus, slinking and covered by the darkness of night, Jesus received him with open ears and gentle truth (John 3:1). Nicodemus did not want anyone to know he was questioning the common misconceptions and downright slander against Jesus. He snuck to the Savior and the Savior seemed to pull up a chair for him!

When I have been misunderstood or slighted by someone who does not really know me, I have a hard time pursuing a relationship with them. But Jesus knew exactly what was in Nicodemus’ heart and mind. He knows the truth about every person and extends mercy beyond my comprehension. Jesus knows the truth about how we got to our wrong beliefs about Him and is ready to lead us to know Him rightly.

I am challenged in the season to protect and steward better than ever before the words I share about Jesus. May I make introductions to the Savior that are truthful and inviting. May I be ready to give an answer to anyone who asks (1 Peter 3:15) and may I live a life that makes others want to ask me where my hope comes from!

My prayer is that you - whoever you are - would know Jesus for who He really is.

In the Love of Christ,

Hannah

In My Lane

The minivan life is now for me. With four children and a watchful eye on virtual yard sales at all times, my silver van is the best vehicle I could have in this season. I love it! And I love the conversations that unfold in it from little women in the backseat who feel more comfortable asking hard questions when they do not have to stare me in the eye across the table. The van is a wonderful place.

Sunday, my second daughter was staring through her window as I merged onto the interstate. She startled and yelled, “We are going backwards! Mama, why are you driving backwards?!”

I laughed and assured her I was going 65 miles per hour in the right direction but the truck beside me was going much faster, trying to give me more space to get on the road. The speed of this huge truck moving forward made it look like, from the side angle, we were moving backwards.

With a grin, I asked her, “Sweet girl, look ahead through the front window in the direction we are going. Does it still look like we are going backwards?”

She leaned over and searched the windshield. A little relieving laughter followed and she said she knew we were going the right way now.

Being the way the I am… I pressed in a little further and said, “This is a good lesson, girls. This happens in other areas of life as well. When you are doing something you love or working hard to learn something new, it is very tempting to look to your side and see what other people are doing. Sometimes, I can get distracted looking at others doing the same work I do and feel like I’m going backwards while they speed ahead. We will feel better and remember we are making our own progress best when we keep our eyes fixed ahead of us. We look where we want to go, not to the side.”

My verbally inquisitive daughter simply chirped, “Okay!” and moved on to staring at the next wonder out her window. Another daughter, who I wasn’t sure was listening at all, made a serious face with a gentle nod but said nothing. I pray she got the point.

We are all learning and growing at different paces. Motherhood has certainly taught me that with a fresh perspective from the parents’ eyes. The Lord must look on His children with wonder at our growth and compassion for our struggles while truly not comparing us to one another.

This sweet lesson caught me again this morning as I studied the Word.

“Only let each person lead the life that the Lord has assigned to him, and to which God has called him. This is my rule in all the churches.”

-1 Corinthians 7:17, ESV

Since my van ride to church Sunday, I had forgotten the lesson I reviewed with the girls. It does not take much time on social media or back in the workplace to lend a person to comparison. It is easy to find oneself asking, “Why can’t I get ahead? How did I end up so far behind others?” instead of keeping our eyes on our own goals or purposes in this life.

Who assigned me the life I have? Who called me to the work at my hands? Who leads me to write or quilt or mother or love my husband or provide nursing care?

That is the question I should be asking. It has already been answered. It is the Lord my God.

In times of discouragement, take courage! I am reminded this morning to fix my eyes on the goal, without looking to the right or the left. My goal is Christ, who I already have, and fixing my eyes on Him eternally will define my callings in this life.

In the Love of Christ,

Hannah

In Two Seasons

It feels hidden and holy, this part of the path I am walking slowly through. My soul feels at the beginning of winter while spring dawns around me. With each spiritual step I catch the fragrance of the last autumn leaf being gently crushed under foot. But, my eyes gaze on the red buds of spring when I look up from my prayerful pace.

Have you ever walked in a spiritual season that opposes the physical season of the earth?

Birds are chirping and I know my literal lungs are taking in the fresh spring air but the very core of myself is prepared for the work of winter. Much of what had flourished in my life has faded and fallen, returned to the soil of my heart’s garden as fertilizer for what will come next.

The fertilizer must be taken in by the soil and the hidden work of decomposing foliage transforming into nourishment for what will grow into summer blooms must be done. It is part of the cycle.

I sang a song out to the Lord over rusty guitar strings and unfolded laundry in early January. My voice feebly cried, “Call me home. Precious Lord, forever more, call me home.” The melody drifted over and over from my heart and I did not truly know what I meant.

Did I want to go home to Tennessee? The answer was: no. Did I want to go home to Heaven? The answer is: always. But what did I actually mean as I sang this odd petition?

I sang it to a sweet friend and she said it was “heavy duty”, sensing the deep groans of a sinking vessel under the weight of crashing waves. We could not put a meaning to it, though. Finally, it made sense to me Sunday.

The Lord changed my heart in January and helped me desire to move back home to Nashville. On my first weekend in town, I picked up some furniture from online yard sales. I had an afternoon scheduled to drive from place to place to furnish a home we have since purchased.

The first pickup was in the first neighborhood I ever remember living in. It warmed my heart to be back in a part of town that always felt familiar and welcoming as my first memory of home. I hopped on Old Hickory Blvd then and drove over to the next pickup. I grinned and shuddered respectively at each landmark of memories I passed along the way. Many firsts happened for me on these roadways and I was inadvertently taking a tour of my life in Nashville on this sunny, yard sale pickup afternoon.

Lord, You sure have a sense of humor turning my busy afternoon errands into such a precious time of reflection, I prayed as I crossed over the interstate.

I hit Nipper’s Corner and drove up the hill to stare at the big Methodist Church where the Holy Spirit shook me awake during a high school choir performance. And then I laughed out loud when my GPS told me to turn left.

Are you kidding me! No way, Lord! What is going on?!

Two left turns later and I sat in front of the first condo I called home when my step-mom became my best-friend for 10 years. I could not have knowingly navigated myself to that space if I had tried, having lived there before I was responsible for driving myself anywhere. I laughed and wondered where the next, final pickup location could take me. I plugged in the address and drove on.

The sun was setting and I was traveling up a long, winding driveway in the heart of Forrest Hills. It was a road I had driven by thousands of times but had never turned down. I breathed a little sigh of relief and laughed. But my laughter turned to awe as I pulled up to a near cliff with a skyline view of the city that raised me. I had a 180-degree view of my favorite parts of Nashville at sunset.

A tear came to my eye and I realized I did not just move home to Nashville. I was being called here. Not for some extravagant job or well-positioned ministry move. Just a calling to come home and be present with eyes open in every space the Lord would take me.

That was about two months ago. I’ve kept my eyes open and had so many God moments of Him mercifully showing me how he has answered my prayers over the years, unbeknownst to me. He has reconnected me with people I love and placed us right where we should be. I have even been blessed to make new friends and see glimpses of what He has in store in different areas of our lives ahead.

And, Sunday, the circle of this calling home was closed. I walked into church doors that I used to hold open to greet newcomers. I sat eight rows back from where I once sat every time the church was open. I heard the kind of sermon I prayed would fill that space for years in a row. The building’s bones were the same but this was a totally different church.

I could almost see that 17-year-old girl with her annotated bible full of ah-ha moments and hunger for intimacy with God. And I cried because she didn’t imagine this future. She never asked for some of the testimony that fills her journal.

But, her prayers were answered. She asked to know God better, deeper, and for who He really is. Oh, how He has answered that prayer in mercy and goodness. She prayed that the people that entered that room would be comforted. She was praying for herself, for me. I was comforted, Sunday.

That young woman’s flourishing blooms now feed the compost as winter comes for her soul. This will be a fruitful winter, with hearty greens and nourishing root vegetables. But, it will be winter nonetheless.

My tour of Nashville with a strongly felt assurance that I have been called home on purpose was just the tilling to prepare the garden. I am already so nourished by the reminders that God has transformed my life more times than I can truly count. He has made new wine out of me time and time again. He is still faithful and He will still be, even in a hidden, holy winter in spring.

In the Love of Christ,

Hannah

The Story

How Prayerful Pieces, LLC Began

The other day, I reflected on my birthday and shared something about my life that really only hit me after I posted it. I wrote that I had accomplished all of my adolescent goals for adulthood by the time I was 30. That statement, written from humble wonder, sparked a little flame to expound on and that led me here: Prayerful Pieces, LLC.

This sweet, small business I started in my 31st year of living has been such an adventure in just doing the next thing God gives you to do. I want to share how I got here. I want to give you a little history and help myself remember what God has done!

Backing up to early 2017, I was driving down Wedgewood Ave. on my way to a weekend shift at a hospital in Nashville. I clearly remember my hands on the steering wheel and thinking that I had already accomplished all the goals I had in mind. I was the nurse administrator for a developmental agency in the town I lived in. My little family had grown and we had built our custom home. Our families were close. Ministry was fruitful. Life was full and we were healing from a wounded season.

And I popped on social media to ask the logical questions of the day: What do you do when you have achieved all of your “goals” or met all the expectations of those around you?

A friend responded and challenged me to prayerfully reevaluate my goals. I realized there was one goal we had put far off. We had always felt led to move to Ireland. We had a mission trip coming up to serve local churches there a few months later. I began to pray that the Lord would direct my steps again.

And He did.

By January of 2018, we were living in Ireland. It was a fruitful year. It was not easy but it was good. I started writing the heart lessons and moments I saw before me, as to never forget what God was doing.

Then our visas were denied for the second year of our commitment in 2019. We asked the Lord to show us what was next. Since then, He has faithfully and demonstratively directed our paths. He led us to places of service and healing, of pouring out and filling up. He has given us new dreams and goals.

When 2020 reshaped the pace of life for so many people, the Lord led us to a ministry change. We landed in a new town serving alongside people we love dearly. Ministry and life in that season looked different from the past 9 years as things slowed to more intentional movements for us. I was thankful for that slowdown and the opportunity to be a stay at home mom for the first time while we welcomed our fourth daughter into the family.

And I got out my sewing machine. I started to quilt and sew again. The girls got to be involved and put their hands to crafting. I began to pray about how my hands might serve the Lord in prayer and serve my family as a supplemental income. One conversation led me to reach out to see if anyone needed memorabilia quilted together for a keepsake. Another conversation led me to Proverbs 31 to be reminded of this resourceful, godly woman’s textile savvy. The next conversation led me to form an LLC and become a business.

By December of 2020, Prayerful Pieces, LLC was up and running! This was a goal I never actually dreamed up. I just kept praying and asking the Lord to show me what to do next. He showed up every time. He led me with His Peace like a pillar of cloud in the day and a pillar of fire in the night. He always has. It is so like Him to do so.

I realized that the past 10 years have been defined and refined by learning to follow Him better. Seeing that following lead to places I did not expect has been a blessing beyond what I could have asked or imagined.

But, that isn’t the end of the story for Prayerful Pieces, LLC.

By January 2021, the Lord gave me words to say. I wasn’t sure how to say them. He had been building them up in me for years and I had treasured the lessons in my heart with reverence. Then, God showed me how to share them and I began to write them down. They flew from my fingertips onto pages of writing with an easy peace. I knew they were first for the women of my local church.

Off I went to meet with the pastors and ask about sharing this collection of stories. I was ready to go by office depot and print off some packets. Maybe host a bible study! Something fun and light.

At the quilting table, I was praying about these stories and felt led to put them in a book. Fun and light was not the direction. Deep and sincere was the heart. The Lord then reminded me of a woman whose short biography I had just read and her devotion to writing for the church. Her story seemed familiar to my own, an encouragement to my new writer soul.

The next conversation I had at a play-date with one of kiddos offered me five minutes of advice that turned the whole situation in a new direction. I ended up leaving that moment realizing that my prayerful quilting had set up the funding to actually self-publish a book on prayerful moments!

The pastoral staff was supportive and I was encouraged to move forward. With beautiful cover art from a dear friend and thoughtful revision by an amazing group of women, Prayerful Pieces became a place for works of word and hand.

We shared Prayerful Pieces: Storied Moments of Tending the Heart with the women of my local church in the fall of 2021. It was humbling to receive their experiences with the words penned in a season of moment-by-moment obedience. I am still floored by the initial impact of those words.

This is now the work of Prayerful Pieces, LLC. As I head back into my passion as a full time registered nurse, my family is still committed to what Prayerful Pieces, LLC is doing. With my online shop filled with quilts, stories, table runners and devotional pages, we press on.

I love this little business that has been slowly building in the background. It’s a goal I never had, a blessing I did not know I would need.

I surely hope it blesses others and shines as a light in the darkness.

As always, In the Love of Christ,

Hannah

Where We’re Going

The paint roller intermittently sprayed back tiny drops of exterior white paint onto my clothes as I gave a few aspects of my house the attention they needed. After living in this sweet, white cottage-like home on a quiet corner here in Georgia for over a year and a half, I am finally getting around to the last small touches that will make this house really feel like a home.

But, I am not making it a home for me. I am getting this house ready to sell. We love our neighbors and our neighborhood dearly. We love our church and community here deeply. I have been blessed with sweet fellowship everywhere we have lived and would point out that the people here are just unlike any I have ever known.

I often say this Georgia town is like the island of Malta for us. God led me in scripture to Acts 27 and 28 shortly after we arrived here. Malta was an island of hospitality and refreshing, though not without trial, for the Apostle Paul after his shipwreck as a prisoner en route to Rome. After years of transition after transition, it would seem that our calling here was a sort of shipwreck onto these Peachtree shores.

While I could elaborate on that point for pages, I have something else to share at this time.

The past few weeks have been full of prayer, fasting, quilting, nursing, painting, cleaning, quarantining, and more. As I washed another load of linens and painted another corner in need, I was reminded of a talk I spoke last year at this time to the women of One Church. The topic was Heart Care and the points were deeply personal.

In that talk, I shared my testimony. I shared how, as a teenage girl, I encountered what a true disciple’s life looked like. In turn, that led me to see how much of my everyday life was untouched by the truth that I followed Jesus and had been made new in Him. Swift changes followed to refocus my gaze and fix my eyes on the things above. Repentance. Grace. Repentance. Grace. A new rhythm for a fledgling disciple.

I also shared about sanctification and how God showed me that being made holy would become more and more natural as I spent time in the light. Darkness would never satisfy me again, never truly satisfy what had tasted and seen the light of Christ. All of my days now focus on being found in Him and being made holy as He is holy.

All of that repentance, grace, sanctification, and more would become the heart of my talk last January: Heart Care.

We spend so much time talking about self-care these days. I mean, I am writing this from my bed at 6:30pm because self-care is important and this mama needed to lay down today. What I have learned is this:

As much as self-care is important, heart care is the most critical part of self-care.

Real self-care is heart care.

I often think of the Proverbs 31 woman. After reading this chapter of Proverbs for myself, I found a woman so different from what I had heard about. I found a small business woman who works into the night to provide for her family and household. I found a woman dedicated to others and whose husband sits at the gate regaling her nobility. I found a woman who was meek and driven, gentle and strong, kind and powerful.

And I discerned that the Proverbs 31 woman must have had a well cared for heart. We hear all about guarding our heart and that is essential! Proverbs 4:23 says “Above all else, guard your heart, for everything you do flows from it.” We must do that. But we also must care for what is in our hearts. This woman laughed without fear of the future. That tells me her heart was cared for, living from a place of trust and faith instead of fear or anxiety.

I think we can get stuck on the word “guard” in that last verse. We focus on what we let in or keep out. We don’t do it perfectly, though. None of us do. So, we have to then look inward often to see what has slipped through and muddied the flowing waters within us. We have to, with Christ, purify our hearts (James 4:8).

That inward inventory and cleaning out is heart care. And it has to be done often, not just when we are getting ready to show it off for others (says the woman that just repainted and cleaned a home better than she ever did for herself because others are coming to judge it). I so passionately believe heart care must be a daily, moment-by-moment work that I wrote a book of essays about it last year! This is important!

The truth is, heart care is done best when we are alone with the Living God. While it can certainly be done with a licensed counselor or dear friend, we must have to have time to rest alone in prayer to complete a spiritual examination of our hearts and ask the Lord to do a work in us we shouldn’t try to do on our own. He will show up and transform us. We watch Him clear, heal, renew, restore, refresh, transform, and do more than we could ask or imagine. We store up His Word in there, that we might not sin against Him (Psalm 119:10) and we continually reassess as we run this race with endurance (Hebrews 12:1-2).

Well, our family has done a lot of reassessing. In the past year, we have reassessed our personal and family boundaries. We have reassessed our needs and family dynamics. We have reassessed our calling. And the Lord has been clear about where we are going.

So, where are we going? To what do our eyes look, now?

Home. We are going to heaven, eternally. We have eyes fixed on heaven.

But, in the meantime, we are going home to Tennessee. I’m pursuing full time nursing again and stepping back into the career God has clearly called me to with the support of my dedicated husband and supportive family there. We haven’t called Middle Tennessee home in 4 years, two kids, and more. So much has changed since we packed up and moved to Ireland in 2018. Much of that has been unexpected, some of it has been deeply grieving, all of it has been within the providential will of God.

We are two imperfect people made new in Christ leading a small tribe of imperfect little ladies and their dog, Hickory, to the Cross of Jesus every chance we get. And we even do that imperfectly. But, we endeavor to do better each day.

Tomorrow, with new mercy and a fresh cup of coffee, I will lift my eyes up to the hills of Tennessee and watch the Lord make the path straight before me. I hope it is to a quiet, godly life. I pray it is to holy, hidden moments of obedience. I’m ready to be the wife, mom, nurse, quilter, writer, and good friend God has given me to be. I’m ready to be me in Jesus’ Name. No apologies, just goodness and mercy.

Here’s to the next chapter. May it be blessed and may we not forget it.

In the Love of Christ,

Hannah

Here, We Are.

Last week, I was gifted a lovely set of coffee mugs that stack neatly in a silver stand on my counter. They are crisp and perfect for public display! And they will serve their purpose. They have joined our wide collection of mugs from places or people that mean so much to us.

Our cupboard full of coffee mugs keeps reminding me of this half written blog sitting in my Google Drive. Each cup, perched precariously just within the confines of these shelves, seems to point out how full my life is. Admittedly, my life is very full and, somehow, life was wilder and more chaotic just months ago. As I carefully remove one mug each morning or refill the cupboard with clean mugs warm from the dishwasher, lessons are brought back to my mind.

The lessons they remind me of today are hard-learned and years in the making. In fact, back in 2015, I laughed and cried reading the stories Lysa Terkuerst wrote in her book The Best Yes. I found myself easily identifying with her struggles to learn how to make healthy decisions and how to determine when to say “Yes” to opportunities. I learned that saying “No” to certain things was saying “Yes” to others.

That book about decisions really sparked a personal endeavor to do two things:

1. Spend more time in prayer before making decisions - big or small.

2. Set boundaries in my life and hold myself accountable to those boundaries.

Fast-forward to Spring 2021, friend after friend made it a priority in our conversations to voice that there was a lot on my plate. My plate is not just my own - it’s my husband’s, my children’s, my dogs’ plate, and sometimes more. The number of beating hearts that were affected by my decisions in life had grown with the addition of our fourth baby, serving in a large ministry, and running the race of life at full speed.

But, I will say, I was a bit out of shape for the race. Jumping back in full speed after COVID shut downs and newborn life had me breathing hard and rubbing proverbial IcyHot on my weary mental muscles. I saw that in my husband as well. Everyone was rushing back to “normal” post-pandemic and we were grappling with what about “normal” was worth rushing back to.

You can’t just do less, sometimes. There are only so many things in life or in certain roles that you can delegate. When asked by caring friends this year what we could eliminate from our days that would give more time for rest and help up be ready to do what God had called us to do, my answer was the same:

I had been looking at our load - the work of our hands and our hearts - and figuring out what we could eliminate or delegate to someone else but I just never felt like any of the “extra” or “small” stuff was ours to let go of, yet.

We prayed. We kept going. We kept praying. We kept going. We prayed and we really did not want to admit that the piece of our life that needed to be handed off, the piece of the family puzzle that kept us from maintaining the boundaries set for our family was a piece we were unwilling to let go of. It would have been easier to off-load the “smaller”, “extra” pieces of our lives to keep allowing the biggest, ill-fitting piece more room to just sit in the middle of the puzzle. Not only would it have been easier on us to refuse to make that decision, it would have been easier on everyone else.

Truth be told, the “smaller” pieces were actually the most important pieces for our family in this season. Life was less of a puzzle and more like my functional coffee mug cupboard. There is a rotation in the process of using each mug, cleaning the mug, and replacing it carefully in the cupboard. There are some seasonal mugs that go in for Christmas and then return to storage to await the next most wonderful time of the year. There are mugs reserved for special occasions or tea parties in the back of the cupboard. There are mugs that have a broken handle or a chip that, once cracked to the bottom, will be sorrowfully discarded. And there are mugs that mean a lot but will be passed on as a gift or sent to a thrift shop because they just don’t fit in my hand the way they used to.

Similarly (or maybe as a stretch for this metaphor), God reminded us this year that there are things that we can be gifted at and passionate about that are not ours to do anymore.There are roles, titles, callings that were ours and now they aren’t. Maybe we have been given new directions and have to lay down old things for new things to have space. Maybe we weren’t careful enough, letting chips and cracks impair the integrity of the former gifts. Maybe we have grown and that just isn’t what we are called to anymore. Maybe all of these hypotheses are true all at one.

I know this: It is best to lay those things down in obedience rather than have them taken from you in resistance.

I most often resist the purposes of God for a primary reason: fear of what others will think of me. My sentences become laden with clauses that subtly justify my choices, in hopes that people will see my heart in my choices. I think to myself, If they just knew, they would understand. God reminds me that they aren’t the people I’m serving. He reminds me over and over and over again.

“Am I now trying to win the approval of human beings, or of God? Or am I trying to please people? If I were still trying to please people, I would not be a servant of Christ.”

Galatians 1:10

I don’t get the opportunity to let every person into the kitchen to hear the details of why I can’t let certain mugs go or why the mug they gave me didn’t remain in the cupboard for more than a few months. If we spend our whole lives making decisions based on how others will respond, I fear we will all find ourselves at destinations less magnificent than the ones we could have arrived at. We will always land in the sovereign will of God, but our taste for the fullness of Joy offered in every moment may be off if our eyes were on the people watching instead of the Creator directing.

So, I finished this blog before the year’s end as I finished the end of the peppermint mocha creamer I splash into my mug of hot coffee each December. January is coming. I already see why we are where we are. God is doing new things and our only goal is to live quiet, godly lives.

Our boundaries are reset. Our hearts are healing, resting, and moving forward. May 2022 be a year of joy in the hidden and holy moments of life.

In the Love of Christ,

Hannah

Remembrance

The plates were overflowing with foods full of memories. I usually joke that the food must be good if the table gets quiet but this food was great and the table was covered in voices exclaiming just that.

My stepfather grinned over his plate as he said, “Ok, if you put that oyster dressing on the chicken pie, it tastes just like Grandma Co’s oyster pie. You have to try it!”

The chicken pie was one of a few family recipes that made their way to the buffet this Thanksgiving. I was so glad my husband got to experience a few things about the Louisiana holidays I loved that I had only been able share through stories until now! One of my first experiences meeting my bonus family as a teenager was visiting Grandma Co’s house for Thanksgiving. It was a unique experience, playing in the yard with sugar cane stretching for acres around the old house full of laughter and food.

I looked back up from my plate to see my stepfather, who had disappeared while I traveled down memory lane, return to the table with a plate full of chicken pie topped with oyster dressing. He continued to explain how Co would mark the oyster pie differently from the others so his father would know which pie was which. The stories of their witty quips and annual commentary over the holiday meals seasoned this full plate of food.

My husband and I picked up forks to see what this story tasted like. I had only known Grandma Co a short time compared to the people raised by her that lined this table. My husband had never met her. But, in tasting that dressing-covered pie, we knew her a bit better.

I could almost hear Mr. Bryan (my step-grandfather known as Pee-Paw to the folks alongside me) making remarks to Co about her cooking. Resurfacing in my mind was the image of worn hands over the dishes in the kitchen sink after the meal while children were swinging in the yard on the other side of that kitchen window.

The joy on my stepfather’s face reminded me of my own compulsion to share the servings of turkey dressing that my grandmother, Betty, made for me when she visited me in Ireland. I saved a piece to give to an Irish friend and delighted to regale my friend with how wonderful a cook my Grandmama is. How thoughtful she is to make extra helpings for us to take home and save!

And I thought of something Jesus said to his disciples over a sentinel meal:

“And he took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them, saying, ‘This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’ And likewise the cup after they had eaten, saying, ‘This cup that is poured out for you is the new covenant in my blood.’”

Luke 22:19-20

Suddenly, this communal holiday meal felt like the definition of remembrance.

None of us sat down to eat the food simply to nourish our bodies or because it was what was expected of us on Thanksgiving Day. These aunts and uncles did not carefully craft dishes handed down to them so that they would satisfy their hunger around lunchtime. This was certainly for those purposes but it was meant for more. This was remembrance.

Two generations and multiple cultures removed from Grandma Co, I felt a sense of knowing her better because of the way her grandson spoke of her as he offered me a forkful of history. I now had an actual taste to match this imparted memory.

Jesus was asking the same, in a sense, of his disciples. He knew he would not be with them in this way for much longer. The time was coming where He would be absent in body but present in Spirit. Jesus even explained why that time would be better! He said that the Spirit would come and be for them what He was not meant to be in that very hour He was speaking (John 16:7).

So, He offered them communion. His body had not yet been broken and His blood had not yet been poured out. Yet, He taught them to put an action, a taste and see moment, into their active remembering of who He was. This command carries much purpose.

I wonder if the disciples remembered this first communion as they recalled His flesh torn by lashings and His blood poured from His wounded side on their behalf. I wish I could hear their active remembrance of Him when they first shared communion after his departure from their presence. And how much did the coming of the Holy Spirit enrich their communion!

In the church I attend, we take communion every Sunday. We take of the body and of the cup. We pray not just to remember but also to know a memory imparted to us by generations of believers since the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. We experience the Holy Spirit of God moving in us as we let Him call to mind moments of Christ’s life, death, and resurrection that still transform us today, thousands of years later.

Nearly every Sunday, I leave communion with a compulsion to share that good news of salvation with those who have not yet tasted and seen that the Lord is good. I want to bring the remembrance of Jesus’ life to the lost with at least as much excitement as my stepfather had sharing oyster dressing atop chicken pie.

My stories would be filled with the words He spoke accented by the moments they have rung true in my own life. With tears brimming my eyes I would say, “See what He has done! He is all He promised, taste and see!” and it would not be long before someone else would join in this communion of everyday saints following the God of All Creation.

I can say that confidently because I have known it to be true. May I never stop sharing His Truth and remembering who He is, especially over tables surrounded by hearts He created. If you want to hear, I would love to share some stories of my Savior that are at least as good as oyster dressing on chicken pie in a New Orleans garden. Come on over and have a seat at the table.

In the Love of Christ,

Hannah

His Command is to Love

Memories on social media tend to take me by surprise. Today, that is just what happened. I had written a blog to share but the words are too fresh, too real for sharing. Then I received a notification from Facebook that I had a memory with a name I haven’t connected to in many years. I followed the link and found this blog from my page back in 2012.

I’m stepping back into nursing more formally as I continue to be the wife and mother God has given me to be, as I build Prayerful Pieces, LLC at home, and as I serve in worship ministry in my church fellowship. It feels right to remind myself of the truths unabashedly spoken by my 21 year old self. My tone has changed over time but I hope to hold onto that zeal for God’s love forever.

Here it is:

“People are made with skills and passions. There are things you can read about a person, even in childhood, that signal a passion for art, dance, math, something! There are two or three things in my life that have been these foretold passions or skills of my own: nursing and singing.

I have been crooning since I could walk and I have been the mothering caretaker for just about the same amount of time. In high school, my days were spent helping the school nurse and singing in the choir (and the hallways and the shower and the car).

One day, I turned this a bit more around and got involved in a church that I absolutely adored. I began singing on Wednesdays on the worship team and found out that there may be a little more to this singing thing than just a potential career path. Singing became my most favorite way of praising my Father and bringing glory to God.

I arrived at Western Kentucky University ready to figure out what the heck I would do with my life and to get ready to put my shoes on and head out the door to adulthood. In the past four years, I have found that nursing is definitely my career path and leading worship is going to play a large role in what I do for the rest of my life. Surely, God will reveal other things along the way but these two things are clear cut and beautiful to me.

But here is the thing. I am not going to be a good nurse because I am so good at the skills, cause I can give shots like a pro or start an IV in under 30seconds. I am not going to be a good worship leader because I have a great voice or perfect pitch. I won't be good at either of these two things because of my skills. I will be good at them because I love people. When I am taking care of a patient, I am sure they appreciate the timeliness and cleanliness of my brief changing skills. When I am praising God with a microphone in front of my face, I am sure the congregation appreciates that I can carry a tune.

These things don't make me good at what I do. A machine could do those things. It is unacceptable to say, "Man, she sure is a great nurse/worship leader but she is mean as a snake!" I have heard that mentioned in both fields and all I want to scream is, "Then she is not good at it!" Both of these things that I love require me to love people. Skills aside, it is about taking care of someone in a time of need with compassion and understanding while also having the skills required for the task.

Florence Nightingale (mega-nurse) is recognized world wide as one of the greatest nurses and mothers of nursing to ever exist. She had no IVs, chest X-rays, or Foley catheters to prove her worth with. She had care, compassion and a [heart] for taking care of sick people. And looking at my favorite worship leaders of today, they are not the ones standing on stage having a private time of worship for everyone to admire, they are the ones who LEAD others in praising God! They care, not only about their own worship experience, but about the ability for their congregation to praise God as well! This makes a good leader or nurse.

"My command is this: Love each other as I have loved you. Greater love has no one than this: to lay down one's life for one's friends. You are my friends if you do what I command. This is my command: Love each other. (John 15:12-14, 17 NIV)"

If you have the skill, whatever your passion or profession, but you do not love when doing it, it is time for a heart check. Realize this: loving my patients and loving my church family is the purpose of what I do. God did give me skills and he gave you skills as well but if I practice them without regard or love for those around me, then I am wasting my skills and myself. His command is to LOVE! So, do it.”

• Originally Published 10/24/2012 at IntheLoveofChrist.blogspot.com

Endless Mercy

New mercy, whispered at my ear as I opened my eyes and took in the soft light through the bedroom curtains.

My feet hit the carpet and my hands reached to cradle my still swollen, tired face. The day before crept into my mind. It was a really tough day - the kind you cannot be proud of or even believe really happened as awfully as it had.

But, this was a new morning and new mercy was being offered to me. I could take it or I could leave it. Head in my hands while my family slept for a few more minutes, I could decide to accept this new mercy or live another day engulfed by whatever dark cloud had carried me the day before.

Mercy was the better choice.

The Oxford Dictionary defines mercy as “compassion or forgiveness shown toward someone whom it is within one's power to punish or harm.” That’s what I needed that morning. It wasn’t just that I should accept this mercy from God. I would have to give this new mercy to myself.

Only the Lord and I knew the depth of my need for mercy. I could say that another way. Only the Lord and I knew the length of my charges for punishment.

Oof...that is not going to be the most popular sentence I ever wrote. But, it is honest. I hadn’t committed a crime or physically wounded anyone. In fact, I feel certain others would hush-hush my perception of the gravity of my sin and assuage my conviction if they had an ear into my internal conversations.

My tough day had been full of selfish choices and loss of self control that came from a restless heart and a soul poked and prodded by anxiety. A cloud of depression, however brief or fleeting, had rested on me long enough that my vision had adjusted to the shade. I needed the Father’s hand to lift it and correct my gaze. He is a Good Father.

As a mother, I sit with my children and perceive their mistakes even before they make them. It is not hard to know when a lie is being formed in their mind to speak to me. Their deception is plain to me while they believe themselves cunning and able to get their way by any means. My kids are great, seriously. They are loving and kind, empathetic and hardworking. But, every child can be selfish and throw tantrums and seek their own good over that of their siblings. They are human! And so am I.

I love those little humans - my children. So though there are sometimes consequences for their poor decisions or bad behavior, they receive mercy more often than not. I may even cut them off mid-lie to give them a chance to restart that sentence and be honest. Or I might intercept as I perceive a big mistake in-process to offer guided questions or redirection. Sometimes, they just go on and make the mistake anyway.

Parenting is so involved and it never stops. As much as I love those little humans, the Father who created all things and people loves them more. He loves me. And, more often than not, I find Him granting mercy in my shortcomings.

“The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases;

his mercies never come to an end;

they are new every morning;

great is your faithfulness.”

Lamentations 3:22-23

On this morning after an awful day, I chose to believe in the Loving Father for mercy. After repenting of my truly unhealthy behaviors, I chose to gift myself mercy instead of beating myself down. There was a full day ahead and life kept on going.

Hours later, I was standing on the stage in the worship center at church. We sang out songs of praise and prayer. How unworthy and unkempt I felt inside! My pause of repentance and renewal that morning reminded me that one tough day didn’t disqualify me from service for the Lord, though unrepentance might.

As I sang, I believed more and more that His love is steadfast and His mercy really endless. I remembered that the cloud could keep me downcast if I kept my eyes fixed on my shortcomings. I fixed the eyes of my life back on Christ Jesus. Someone said to me after our service that morning that they could see that I love Jesus. I began to weep because that is Who my soul, my heart, my mind, my spirit love and adore - Jesus.

This story is not something I intended to share but felt compelled to share as I hummed my favorite hymn this week.

“Come Thou fount of every blessing

Tune my heart to sing Thy grace

Streams of mercy never ceasing

Call for songs of loudest praise”

Robert Robinson (1735-1790)

Lord, tune my heart where it’s strings have loosened. Bring me constantly into harmony with the endless praises of Heaven. I will praise the Name of Jesus forever for many reasons, but especially for the ceaseless streams of mercy flowing over the people of God.

In the Love of Christ,

Hannah

Belonging

Late-night social media scrolling left me staring at a family photo that looked slightly like my own. Striking East African features blended with a hazel eye and fair complexion on the countenance of a sweet toddler just loving his ethnically diverse parents full-heartedly. 

I looked down at my own nursing baby. What will she know of her mother’s mother’s homeland? Will she be asked the same questions I have faced in my life? Will she know that most blonde-haired babies don’t swallow mouthfuls of injera with delight? 

This little corner of the internet looked a lot like me with commenters that looked just like me sharing culturally ambiguous names. So, I wondered, Is this where I belong? 

When we moved abroad to Ireland, I was questioned by a colleague about my intercultural experience.  It was assumed that, because I came from the United States of America and spoke with a twinge of a southern accent, I must not be “cultured” and would need help navigating intercultural conversations.  

My heart sank. Did she know I was half-Ethiopian? Did my Bachelor’s Degree in Spanish escape her review of my CV or seem like just written words instead of intellectual work?  After a lifetime of finding myself in rooms where my appearance alone had initiated my work to both understand others and to be understood by others, I would find myself defined, now, by the stereotypes of the nation that issued my passport? 

I wasn’t upset only in self-defense, as I’m sure my flesh had some reaction to the comment. I was sad because it is always sad to feel misunderstood and unseen.  It is our human responsibility, especially within the family of God, to do our best to keep another’s soul from isolation. It is my experience that making and verbalizing assumptions about another person leads most often to isolating that person from the crowd, not welcoming them into the community. This forces a person to ask, Where do I belong?

An article in The New York Times struck me in a familiar way as I read what Noor Brara had to say about a recent televised series on Third-Culture Kids. In the review, Brara wrote, “If asked, any third-culture kid will tell you that shape-shifting — rousing one of the many selves stacked within you to best suit the place you’re in — becomes a necessary survival skill, a sort of feigned fitting in that allows you to relate something of yourself to nearly everyone you meet.” 

It felt as if someone had summarized my entire childhood and adolescent experience of socialization as I read that remark. This survival skill helped me to mask the shame I felt when I couldn’t make it past common greetings in the language of my heritage. It soothed the ache of guilt that I felt when I learned another mother’s language fluently while barely recognizing my own.  It calmed my anxious heart within my warm, brown skin standing at the hostess table in a southern meat-and-three. And, it’s a biblical admonishment to any believer in Christ to become all things to all people. 

The apostle Paul spoke in 1 Corinthians 9:19-23 about becoming all things to all people, taking on whatever their position was so that he might understand them and reach a connection with them that led them to know Jesus. It was not manipulation or speaking falsehoods, for he surely did not intend to become a different person. What he could and did do was learn about others, empathize with their positions, reach a connection with them, and see authentic relationships form out of that.  I see this in his letters to the churches. He knew them deeply, even if he was ethnically as different from them as could be. He was a third culture kid, after all: born in Tarsus as a Roman citizen but to Jewish parents as a Hebrew. 

I do not begrudge my raising and my genetic makeup or the beautiful cultures I was brought into. I am thankful for the circumstances that have brought me to this day. I rejoice over my tall and wide family tree, its branches heavy with vibrantly colored leaves dancing in the breeze - the breath of life given to each leaf in its time by the Sovereign Lord over all.  

It is becoming clear to me, in these divisive and tense times of communication, that what I learned as an intercultural survival skill is more necessary now than ever.  It now transcends the need to survive socially and emboldens the call to fulfill Christ’s prayer that people would know we are His believers by our love. 

I know what it is to feel unseen, unknown, and misunderstood.  I also know that those moments have given me an insight into the pain of those across the aisle from me in many avenues. It is my duty to see them, to know them, and understand them.  In doing so, may they be led to the Light of Life. 

So, where do I belong? That’s a question I need to ask the One who made me. When I ask the Lord, I can’t help but believe that I belong right here because that is where I am. 

In the Love of Christ,

Hannah

"Though I am free and belong to no one, I have made myself a slave to everyone, to win as many as possible.  To the Jews I became like a Jew, to win the Jews. To those under the law I became like one under the law (though I myself am not under the law), so as to win those under the law.  To those not having the law I became like one not having the law (though I am not free from God’s law but am under Christ’s law), so as to win those not having the law.  To the weak I became weak, to win the weak. I have become all things to all people so that by all possible means I might save some. I do all this for the sake of the gospel, that I may share in its blessings.
                                                                                                            - 1 Corinthians 9:19-23

Returning and Rest

The dormant things are coming to life, waking up in the warmth of our days.

The sour smell of the Bradford pears and the chorus of birds coming in through the back door remind me this morning that Spring is not only coming but blossoming here. Getting the yard and garden ready for all that spring, summer, and fall will hold is our main task for today.

It’s one thing to know that you have a job to do and it’s another thing to put on your shoes and go do it.

I stepped into the backyard to answer my husband’s questions about where each garden bed should go and re-starting our compost when I looked up at the fence line. We both stood there, hands on our hips, contemplating what will stay and what has to be pruned back or uprooted.

The warmth and the water have started something that is not easy to stop. The vines cover everything and new, infantile trees are reaching for the sun. They are all so beautiful when well placed and tended. But, this morning, they are a mess.

And so am I.

Weeks of overgrowth threaten the margins of my schedule, my mind, my heart, and my home. There is no space left. No breathing room. Beautiful things recklessly reaching across the boundary lines into other spaces in my life.

And just like my garage is full of the tools needed to tend the garden, I am full of the tools needed to tend my life. But have I the will to do it?

We can read book after book, hear sermon after sermon, take seminar after seminar on how to care for ourselves. All the knowing doesn’t become doing without the will to do it.

“Where there’s a will, there’s a way”, they say. It speaks to how fickle the human will be but also the power it employs. Fickle meaning often changing or going back and forth, as if to say “Where there’s no will, there’s no way” - without the will the way is hard or impassable. The human will is powerful in that it can force a change in the path ahead of us. It can bring us to do what God has given us to do.

In some moments, I feel as the sluggard described in Proverbs 19:24 who puts his hand into the bowl and can’t even bring it to his mouth. The tasks or state of things can either inspire one to action or to reluctance. Where is the will to lift my hand? I ask the Lord to lift my hand, in spite of myself. He is faithful.

I’ll take an inventory today - What am I doing? Who am I becoming? What has God asked of me? What am I doing to please people? What am I doing for myself? Does it all please God? Is it all mine to do?

“Many are the plans in a person’s heart, but it is the LORD’s purpose that prevails. “ -Proverbs 19:21

It’s a returning to lessons hard-learned in years past. This is a moment I feel guilty returning to - time and again having to reassess my state of health in every field. Why do I feel guilty? Have I believed a false notion that knowledge and mastery of a skill no longer require practice? My Spanish degree was hard-earned but, these days, I stumble over my Spanish words like my toddler learning to speak.

Unemployed abilities just turn into memories. The longer we leave them unpracticed, the less dexterity we have when we pick them back up to use.

There is no guilt in returning to a state of self-examination and inventory, of reassessment and correction. After all, we pruned the vines and trimmed the trees in the fall then we stored the tools in the garage. We didn’t sell the tools online or throw them out because this isn’t a once-and-for-all type of work.

Garden tending is seasonal. We were created to be seasonal, cyclical beings.

I refuse the guilt of needing fresh tending and instead will sit with my tools and invite the Gardener of my heart to do His work in me. Lord, make me a fruitful garden - weeding, pruning, tilling, sowing, and tending. Let’s do this, again.

“Search me, God, and know my heart;

test me and know my anxious thoughts.

See if there is any offensive way in me,

and lead me in the way everlasting.” Psalm 139:23-24

In the Love of Christ,

Hannah