Waves

We created oceans with waves,
and I know that doesn’t make sense, for sounds to come
before vibrations and light before the rising sun,
but everything was seismic to us.

When I think of the first time I saw
you I can’t see past the sand particles sitting
on your right cheek. Each grain
held onto the curvature

of your face and before I knew it I was
buried knee deep, flipping and flapping
my arms like a child awkwardly astounded
that you were made up of atoms

and particles that were smaller and of more
abundance than God’s poetic dirt
stuck to your sunscreen skin.

I felt big when I was with you.
Not domineering or powerful, not overbear-
ing or oppressive – just important.

Yet if anything I should have felt small.
Your ocean heart constantly
brought in a tide that forced me to swallow
my salty pride and listen to a sea of

whispers that could only be heard
when I stopped picking up seashells and
pressing them to my ear. There
were other things I needed to hear, something

different than a back-and-forth
reflection of waves inside of my head.

And so little by little, wave on wave, you taught
me how to use my hands. With shovels and shells we built
castles out of worn down rock, making the
defeated strong and sturdy again.

I felt taller when I was with you,
and I know I said smaller, however this
statement is just as true because tides
eventually knock down tyrants’

castles and the strong waves knocked me down
too. But every fall into the sea
left me with more seaweed between my toes,

salt dried to my skin, and another chance
for my legs to walk to shore
and stand again.

To think that I thought the oceans
carried the blue waves and then pushed
them, telling them where to go;
what to do; who to be.

I now know it takes the small
to make the big:

One wave
can make a sea.

xx, Hannah

 

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Here and Now, Big and Small

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I’ve been looking up a lot lately. At the sky, at the trees and the way they glisten green as the sunlight shows them that being transparent is beautiful. Turning dark into soft, highlighting all the veins of the leaves that will soon meet the dust that they were made of. I’ve been running to rooftops and trying to gain their perspective; I’m teaching myself what it is like to be tall and strong, big and brave.

Yet even from the rooftops, from the fingertips of trees that spread like arms that embrace, I feel small. My hands feel small when I hold others’ and pray to a big God that I can’t quite comprehend. My symphony of breath and heart beats are a whisper when I consider all the alarm clocks ringing, birds singing, babies yawning, mothers crying, flowers swaying back and forth, back and forth.

Being big, looking up to the big, sometimes means being small. It means crouching and crumbling, falling back to be buried in the dirt, lying beneath the sky choked by the fallen leaves.

It means looking up.

Living means moving my head from my chest and climbing the mountains that remind me that even at the biggest view I will have the smallest perspective. With my small eyes that cannot see but a few miles, my arms that cannot even wrap around a tree or my ears that cannot even listen to my dearest friend because I am listening to myself, I want to learn how to hold the big that reminds me that I am small.

I want to share in suffering. Pray with fervor. Lie beneath the stars. Confess brokenness. Listen to my friends. Call my dad. Read journals, articles, novels.

Look at the trees. Forget, for once, about me.

xx, Hannah

Daughter’s Story

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“Do not merely listen to the word, and so deceive yourselves. Do what it says.” James 1:22

Until recently, I thought I was only a listener to God’s stories. I imagined myself sitting at His feet as He told me story after story about His glory, His greatness, His goodness. But after sitting at His feet, I realized that I was not to be just a listener. He had crowned me as His teller. Had I really listened to any of His stories? So I began to tell His story. And graciously, He let me play a part. This post is all about how He has called us to tell His story, and when we do, we get to experience God’s story come to life:

Every morning I would sit at my Father’s feet and listen to His stories. And how much I loved my Father’s stories! He told me about how I was a very special daughter made in the image of the perfect Father. He told me of an inheritance that outnumbered the glory of the stars. He told me that He was with me before I had the ears to listen to His stories; He had already written them in His book!

And like the poor woman with only sweet perfume, though I was a little girl, all I could do was weep. Father, how could these beautiful stories be meant for me?

I was a daughter that ran away when you called. The one that took dirty hands and pressed them hard against her flesh, the walls of Your temple. Your daughter that denied Father.

Yet you let me sit at your feet.

One morning after listening to You speak for all of the days of my life, you asked this: “daughter, what is the rest of the story?” And I did not know where to begin.

Father, I am the one who sits and listens! The one who weeps. The one who rejoices. Not the one who tells! That is something I cannot do.

But You wanted me to tell the story and so I began to speak — and I was amazed at how Your story was spoken through me!

Like a co-author to the best story writer of all time, I told Your story that was mine. When I spoke, people gathered; when I told, people listened! Your words left my lips like honey and as the co-teller who moments before didn’t know how to tell, I was in wonder as much as the listener.

Your other children came to my feet and I told the story of a Father who had redeemed His daughter, so much so that His story was her story, and that, that story was our story.

I was proof.

Father, how sweet it is to tell your story. To sit at your feet, to listen and know: You will be glorified.

You let me in on Your story so that I can experience the goodness of working in the most beautiful, living story.

I am Your daughter, I sit at Your feet and listen. And when I cannot listen any longer because of the joy your goodness stirs within me —

I speak and Your people come.

Together, we rejoice.

xx, Hannah

Harrison, AR

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This weekend I was blessed enough to go on an adventure to E’s grandparents house in Harrison, AR. Not only was the scenery absolutely breathtaking, but spending time with E’s grandma and grandpa was so special (and so much fun)! These are a few pictures I took on my one-of-a-kind trip:

1. Around 2:30PM (right after I got off of work) We Hit-The-Road

2. Hand Holding with Elizabeth

3. A Scenic Shot via ATV

4. Grandma + Grandpa’s Backyard

5. For Us, A Swim In the Buffalo River – For Susie, One Paw In

6. Preparing For the Weenie Roast + S’more’s

7. Arkansas Sunset (Part I)

8. Arkansas Sunset (Part II)

9. Leaving Grandma + Grandpa’s with Homemade Oregon Blackberry Jam

10. Glory Hole, Ozark Forest

11. Giggles and Glory

12. Me + the Glory Hole

 

xx, Hannah

P.S. A big thanks to E, Esther, Jamie, Grandma, Grandpa, and Susie. Y’all remind me to be thankful.