I am like Mary
weeping at
the foot of your cross
and I am like Mary
rejoicing
at the sound of your
voice
that calls me by name:
“Daughter, I have risen!”
“Daughter, I am alive today!”
I know this is joy,
the kind I have been
searching on my knees
my whole life to find:
“You have risen!”
“You are alive!”
So I rise up from weeping,
the treasure is here —
in your grace
I stand.
xx, Hannah
On a Good Friday I
sit at the table and swallow
Hallelujah’s like grandmother’s
grape jam. My hands
meet in sticky praise and
I smack sweet … blessed …
sin. I smack, manna in mouth;
hand in hand; stained napkin on
tiny right knee. I say blessed,
I say sweet, I say thanks
I begin
to say Hallelu — and
sin smacks me.
Purple is stuck to my cheek,
and Father sees that I
am the thief indulging in the wine
without remembrance of Him.
Because this is what I do: in
the middle of Communion, I forget.
Bread shoved in mouth with mid-conversation
thanks, food-in-face kind of praise,
I respond to my hunger pains
before I answer to His grace.
I wash sticky hands in the steel
sink, the purple stains my skin.
A reminder that it was I
who put Him there.
I scrub for days, days, day
And when I look back at
the wooden table, Father sits.
He is silent and loving
no “I died for this?”
So I return to the table as
clean hands, with mana
and grandmother’s grape jam
He tells me to give thanks,
I do. We start again.
xx, Hannah
P.S. Read Isaiah 53 today as a reminder; give thanks.
To the maker who kissed
the stars with His celestial
breath and placed the cosmos
at my fingertips;
The farmer who took
the dirt from underneath His moon-
slivered nail and planted
me near the living streams that
water me with grace;
The carpenter who carried
the cross, the work of His worn hands,
and carved a vessel into
my chest so that my ribs
were a home, a temple
for his holiness to dwell;
The father who sat
me on His knee, wept
when I ran to the depths of darkness
and rejoiced in song
when I returned:
I am sorry for crying for “lover.”
I have rooted myself in man’s
every word like it is food I need for
nourishment, the manna
I need to give thanks.
I have believed the serpent’s
lie that you: maker; farmer; carpenter;
father, did not love me
when you ran to my rescue
as they ran nails into your palm.
I have clung to the sin
that forced Your lungs to cling
to Your ribs for air,
Your lips to cling to
Your last breath, and Your last breath
to cling onto life so
You could say – “it is finished.”
This is from your bride that
has eloped with the dark, your
dwelling place that has boarded
up her doors, your flower
that has rooted herself among
the sharp death cries of the rock,
the one who has believed your
love was not enough.
This is from the one who is yours.
From the body that has buried
within her the rich soil of your hand
where flowers of life
will bloom;
The temple that holds
your grace that is as vast
and incomprehensible
as the universe
that was made to house the stars;
The daughter made
in the image of the Father.
This is an account
of my broken Hallelujah
that proclaims praises to a faithful
Father who has sown a seed of
righteousness in the dirty soil
and watered me with grace.
But more than a handwritten letter
to you, this is a reminder to me –
there is no lover who will love me
better than when you placed the heavens
in my hand, when you called me
Yours.
My God, my Maker,
my Farmer, my Carpenter,
my Father, my Bridegroom;
your love is more than enough for me.
xx, Hannah
This poem is all of the things I want my sisters to know as daughters of Christ. Take it as a letter from me, your sister, to you, my sister. But keep in mind: as a sister, as a daughter, this is just as much for me as it is for you. —
Dear sister,
please never forget
that the first person to
hold you was your Father.
I know the doctor’s cold
hands were the first
to press into your malleable skin,
the first to press their milky way
fingerprints into your back,
urging you to take a breath into
the fit of life,
but there was a man before
the day that you were welcomed by
fluorescent lights, mother’s cry and
sheets of white. There
was a day before your cry
sounded it’s first Hallelujah.
Sister, there was a time, and
I know you won’t be able to remember
it, that you were spoken to
life, before your feet ever hit
the Earth’s hard surface.
Before your heart had a beat,
before the dust dirtied and bruised
your just-washed feet, there
was a time when you were
alive.
A time ago, the maker and keeper of time,
your Father, made your forest eyes
and mahogany hair with the
same breath He spoke the stars
into existence.
When you did not exist in
Hallelujah cries, you existed
in the dust that was left in the palm
of God after His hand smoothed
the skin of the Earth.
In Adam and Eve, you were there,
but sister, you won’t remember. I
promise you were there:
When He promised Abraham
an inheritance as numerous as the stars,
you were among the cluster. When God
warned Noah of the flood, you were there
in the loving kiss of the violent waves.
When Jesus cried “It is finished,” you
were there alongside Mary at the feet of
Jesus weeping.
You simply do not remember it.
Listen, my dear sister. I ask you to
believe me – you were there. As God
blessed Abraham, He was blessing you.
At the moment God saved Noah from
the storm, He was saving you from His
righteous wrath.
As Jesus bled grace that turned
Mary’s bloodied garments to the purest
of whites, you were there.
Sister, the creator held you
before you were held by His creation.
You were given His blessing
before you could bless. You were in His
grace before you ever needed it.
Do not disregard that your beginning
started with an end to
the era of darkness and a beginning
of the eternal continuance of light.
You are, you were, you will be,
His light.
Though there will be days
when the world is dark and your
eyes are closed shut like
they were in the vacuum of your
mother’s womb, remind yourself,
on the day He created light
He knew you would
cast a shadow of existence
in it’s gleam.
My dearest sister, He
will eliminate the darkness and illuminate
His blessing, mercy, and grace in you.
Remember it: you hit the light
before the doctor hit your back.
You were held.
xx, Hannah
Happy New Years. I could tell you story after story about 2014. I learned how to be vulnerable, how to take on the role of a leader, how to pursue and love people, how to pray with steadfastness, and how to be confident. I experienced heartbreak, forgiveness, jealousy, overwhelming joy, thankfulness, anger, abundant love, and grace. He has given me a story of Restoration, and I am the mouth piece that gets tell that story, with my own remarks and remembrances, to the ones that I love (you, my readers).
But there is a little more to the story — my story is not yet finished. Here is His promise for the year 2015 (to me and you) and here is my response, to myself, from myself, that I can look back upon as He continues to restore me:
“May God himself, the God of peace, sanctify you through and through. May your whole spirit, soul, and body be kept blameless at the coming of our Lord, Jesus Christ. The one who calls you is faithful and He will do it.” 1 Thessalonians 5:23-24 NIV
Dear heart, what hope is this! He won’t stop a good work until it is finished (Philippians 1:6). He will do as He promised; He will sanctify me through and through. When my heart is torn asunder this is what He is doing: perfecting, molding, and building. A restoration is in progress. His hands are sure and steady, they are strong yet gentle. He is pulling me into his righteousness so soft and sweet. So why don’t I let Him? Why do I hold on to this spirit, soul, and body that has been designed by the creator to be recreated?
He has created me perfectly so that I may be sculpted into His goodness. Being fearfully and wonderfully made means that I have been made complexly; this sinner’s body, spirit, and soul has the capability (through Jesus) to transform into and become righteousness (Psalm 139:14; 1 Peter 2:9; 2 Corinthians 5:21). What joy that my soul now and my completely holy soul, when He is done perfecting me, has the ability to bring Him glory and praise! What is for my good is surely for His glory (Romans 8:28).
Right here, right now, He is doing the work He has promised and He is not unsatisfied with the unfinished work. Even “in progress,” He claims me as His craftsmanship (Ephesians 2:10). When my anger and pride push away His holiness – and they will – He cares for me, a disobedient daughter, with the love of the perfect Father.
When my heavy and entitled hands bruise the Earth and when I cry “Father, why have you taken away the things that I love?” He holds me ever so patiently. Without anger or irritation he whispers lovingly, “Daughter, it is for your good. I have not yet made your heart wise enough to see the purpose for this pain, but if you trust me, and I want you to trust me, it is for your restoration (1 Peter 5:10-11). Put your trust in me and I will give you peace.”
Dear Daughter, He is promising good through and through. Trust Him. He loves you.
It is my prayer that you can replace the “me,” and “I,” with “you,” “we,” and “us.” He has a story for 2015, trust that it will be the year He makes you more like Him through and through, and time and time, again.
xx, Hannah
A poem inspired by “Dwell in me, and I will dwell in you” (John 15:4-5).
You are home here,
you don’t have to knock.
Barge through the door
that cracks like the
wooden floors of
your heart. These hard
floors are yours,
don’t be afraid to lay
upon the surface that
broke and built you;
it is now your foundation.
Drink in the liquid
mahogany and run your
hands on its gloss: many
men have labored
to pull out the splinters
that have stuck you
before, but holiness has
smoothed the rough.
Throw off the walls
that are giving in and cover
the windows that man
has used as a looking
glass into the fragile
walls of your soul:
You are not a project.
You are not for sale.
The only tenant of your
home is me, your God.
xx, Hannah
I was staring at myself in the mirror, comparing myself to the beautiful people that I am so often jealous of when this poem came to me. Or rather, when His words came to me. This is a poem about getting our hands dirty as daughters of Christ and becoming real beauty as He molds us to be more like Him:
How many hours have you spent
tending your head of hay
when your hands could have been
getting dirty and
strong. Daughter, the harvest
is plentiful and I have
called you (my worker) to press
your hands into the soul
of the Earth and knead it
to life. You are woman because your
hands are skilled and strong:
I’ve seen you rise
like the yeast that excites
the dough you have pounded
with your fists. It is okay to be
angry, the work I have given
you is not easy. I have asked
you to pick the thorns
until your fingers bleed
and the ugly is made beautiful.
I want your hands to be
as strong as the carpenters that
has carved you into
a vessel that will water the plants
I have placed in your lot. Daughter,
your beauty will fade (and these
flowers you have nurtured will,
too) but trust that the work
within you is as strong
as the hands I am giving you
to do my work. I will make
you beautiful in my image. I will
give you the mane of a lion,
the strength of a warrior, and the
delicacy of a daughter. I have
not forgotten you are my daughter.
Because you are woman, I know
it well how I have made you. Your
tears I have given you to water
those in dry soil, your small (but firm)
hands I have given you to tug away
the weeds that cannot be easily
reached, your lips of honey I have
given you to speak wisdom
with sweetness. My daughter,
I have made you to do more work
than to prick and pull at your petals
until you are the most beautiful
flower in the vase. No, I have given
you these hands to serve. The rest
of your pruning will be done
as I do the perfect work in you. You
are altogether beautiful. Go! Do
the work I have given you. I will make
all the old (hatred, jealousy, selfishness) new.
As you work for me, I am doing
a work in you. You will blossom.
You are blossoming. And I (your Father)
am so proud of you.
(Psalm 139, Philippians 1:6, Isaiah 40:8, Matthew 9:37-38, 2 Corinthians 5:17, Genesis 1:27)
xx, Hannah
P.S. A big thanks to my friend Shelby for always delivering with beautiful photos. If you want to get to know more of her soul, here is the link to her blog. If you want to see more of her work, here is her photography page.
On the second or third page of the scrapbook my mom made for me, there is a picture of a black and white sonogram; an inside look of a soon to be crying, breathing, and in-all-color baby. Still inside my mom’s belly, I would soon be grasping the hand that held me so gently in the womb. Alongside the photo my mom writes that, (this is me paraphrasing), the moment she knew that she was having a baby she loved me the most she has ever loved something. Every time I read the tidy cursive next to the messy photo of me that was incapable of showing my long, dark eyelashes (like my dad’s,) my rosy cheeks (like my mom’s,) and my one-of-a-kind silliness (both of my mom and dad,) I am reminded that before my mom knew anything about me, she loved me.
It is natural to be enamored with something that is a product of you. Before my mom knew what I was going be praised for, or more importantly, what I was going to need grace for, she was willing to give up her time, energy, and dreams for me. Whether it is a result of your love, your labor, or your like, it is normal to be passionate about something that is of you. And, (just to clarify), that is not a bad thing. In fact, loving something or someone well is one of the most important things Christ tells us to do, “you shall love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the great (most important, principal) and first commandment. And a second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as [you do] yourself” (Matthew 22:37-39). Loving people is a critical part of being a Christian. However, when Jesus instructs us to “love [our] neighbors as [we] love [ourselves]” He does not mean love your neighbor that is like yourself.
Recently I have realized that I excel at loving people who are like me. If I am thinking of one of my Christian friends, I am quick to shoot them encouragement. If one of my friends is going on a mission trip, I have no hesitation in supporting them through money. If one of the girls in my bible study is having a hard week, I am faithful to take time out of my schedule for a coffee date. When it comes to loving those who love Jesus, I am wonderful at loving them well. And as I mentioned previously, loving people with excellence is to be praised. As Christians, we are called to be the body of Christ, which means praying for one another, encouraging one another, and being vulnerable with another. Like my mom loved (and does love me) because I am a product of her, it is just as beautiful to love someone because we are of the same flesh: brothers and sisters in Christ.
However, while I am thorough in loving those who are of my love, labor, and like, I am weak when it comes to embracing those who are different from me. Because I often love those who are like me, I have convinced myself that I do not need to love others outside of my reach. I have twisted the greatest commandment and twisted the reach of my arm so that I do not have to talk to others or help others that having different dreams and beliefs than I do. I have been content with my Christian walk when really I should be a taking leap forward to reach other people who will not naturally reach for me.
Loving people who are not of the same like as us is hard. Because I have loved the body of Christ so well, I have become blinded to the messy, unconditional sort of love that Jesus calls us to. Starting today, it is my goal to go out of my way and love others that I would often pass without thought. If you have found yourself in the same place that I am in, I encourage you to be intentional in loving others in simple ways. It is as simple as a smile, a have-a-great-day, or even I-love-your-vest. Let’s love people well.
xx, Hannah
P.S. You can love me well by holding me accountable.
never too far
from redemption
when I cry
out on that rock.
my voice does
not go void,
the cracks and valleys
do not soak
up my fears.
no, the heavens
resound.
the son of God groans,
he weeps, he echoes:
“you beloved
is crying out,
and I am crying
out — it is finished.”
your redemption
is made known to me,
oh God.
xx, Hannah
In my last blog post, Bravery + Boldness, I talked about being brave. Can I board a plane? Sure, why not. Can I get a shot without my mom holding my hand? I guess, if I absolutely have to. Can I mumble some poetic words in front of a crowd and then sit back down wishing I was invisible? Of course, of course I can do that. I talked about how a lot of times I am brave: I DO buy plane tickets to travel, I DO let needles touch my skin for the sake of better health, I DO grind words mechanically out of my mouth so I don’t fail my English class. But now I have come to the conclusion – is being brave because we have to be brave being brave at all?
A couple of weeks ago when I wrote my blog, I was convinced that I was brave. Now I am convinced that I am – without exaggeration – a coward. Today, as I was reading about Hannah (1 Samuel 1 & 2) I discovered a more accurate depiction of bravery.
If you haven’t read the story of Hannah, here is a quick-just-for-you-from-me-overview: Hannah is married to Elkanah (this really isn’t important, but he does have a really cool name). Hannah is barren. In a fervent prayer, Hannah asks that God will bless her with a son, promising to God that in turn she will “give him to the Lord for all of the days of his life.” (1 Samuel 1:11). Hannah gives birth to a son, Samuel (which means because I asked the Lord for him – pretty cool). After Samuel is weaned, Hannah fulfills the promise she made to God and dedicates Samuel to the Lord – “[…] ‘the Lord has granted me what I asked of him. So now I give him to the Lord. For his whole life he will be given over to the Lord.'” (1 Samuel 1:28). And finally, after Hannah gives Samuel back to God, Hannah prays to the Lord with praise and exhalation.
When I look at Hannah I see a woman of true bravery. Here is why:
* Hannah asked God to give her a son knowing that He was capable to do so. In her grief, she prayed to the Lord not only asking Him to transform her physically, but spiritually in that she would be willing – if God fulfilled his promise – to give Samuel over to the Lord.
* After having Samuel Hannah kept her promise. Instead of keeping what the Lord had given her, Hannah humbly gave Samuel to the Lord. In giving Samuel to God, Hannah trusts that God will use Samuel for a plan that is much greater.
* Hannah gave up her blessing to bless others.
This made me think: how often do we ask God for something and then hold onto it when He asks us to release it? Hannah’s bravery is rooted in her willingness to ask and believe that God can perform the unthinkable (aka give her a son though she is barren) and her willingness to let go when God gently asks her to open her hand. Hannah trusts that God’s plan for Samuel is better than her own. You see, releasing what God has given us, because we trust him, is being brave.
But being brave is also (and this is just as difficult) asking God to bless us so that we can bless others in return. Being vulnerable with God – telling him the desires of our heart even when they are hard for us to admit – is being brave. Just like Hannah was open with God about her grief and bitterness, when we are open with God about our desires, dreams, and fears, we give Him the opportunity to respond. When we are vulnerable with God we acknowledge Him as the keeper of our secrets, the healer of the wounded, the shepard of the lost, and the God who can cause the blind to see, the lame to walk, and the barren to have child.
In reading the story of Hannah, I have realized that I have clenched my fist to God – tightly holding onto the blessings He has given me. Instead of opening my hand for the Lord to bless me and, in turn, give that blessing up for it to bless others, I have turned my fingertips blue. Ultimately, being brave is having our palms open to God trusting that He is both good and sovereign. Being brave is letting go. Being brave is living a life that is bold.
xx, Hannah
P.S. Just for kicks and giggles (or if you just really need some encouragement to be brave) listen to this: Sara Bareilles – Brave
hmblaisdell.wordpress.com 