safety of the heart

It’s hard to tell which is louder—the pound of my feet on the pavement, or the pound of thoughts in my mind. It’s Tuesday morning and the light is early and golden. Busy cars drive their routes to work. The occasional walker hastily makes their way to the train stop. Tuesday is waking up to the world.  

A blogger I love recently wrote an article regarding the expression “Time heals all wounds.” In it he writes, “Once we reach a certain age, we learn that the healing of the physical wound is not the same thing as being returned to one’s original state of being. [It] does not equal “happily ever after.”

I’ve been waiting for time to make things as they once were. But ‘once were’ is gone the way yesterday is: remembered and cherished, but never held again.

I miss yesterday. The tin roof and thunderous rain. His crooked teeth and big brown eyes. Rice upon rice upon rice. Jolly phonics. Nighttime games with the rats in my ceiling. Cold showers and hot drinking water. Bugs and dirt mixed with sweat and tears, but a joy that runs deeper, a love that stands stronger, a purpose that stretches farther. 

Yesterday became a part of me in a way I never initially wanted. Today is wonderful, filled with such happy and exciting things. A family I love. A job with a little boy I adore. A fiancé who has been every bit kind and patient and loving (and who I’m crazy about). Words cannot capture the way I love today, or how thankful I am. But yesterday’s wounds will never mend me the same. 

And I’ve become the girl on a run who no longer knows how to trust her God with tomorrow.

I’ve learned to not expect safe from the Christian life in physical terms—ebola in Africa, sketchy boda rides, riots blocking roads, voodoo drums. Recently, however, I’ve realized I also cannot expect safety of the heart. Looking at the life of Jesus, I should expect just the opposite: weeping at Lazarus’s tomb, anguish in the garden, tears over Jerusalem.

My God is well acquainted with the sorrow.

Tomorrow is something I’m struggling to leave at His feet. In the midst of that though, I take comfort in the words of Job: “For He wounds, but He also binds up; He injures, but His hands also mend.” 

He cannot mend tomorrow what I haven’t surrendered today. The words of C.S. Lewis come to mind as I make my way to this thing called surrender.

“Safe?” said Mr. Beaver. “Who said anything about safe? ‘Course he isn’t safe. But he is good. He’s the king I tell you.”

He is good, friend. Let us never forget that.

beautiful forget-me-nots

The words don’t come easy. Not the way they used to anyway. They’re scribbled in notebooks, these thoughts half finished-- fragments and snippets of the last 5 months scattered on index cards and moleskin journals and iphone note apps too numerous to count. They hold everything from the craze of nanny days to a new-found relationship to the achings and longings for Haiti. 

Like the winter we’ve watched become summer, the seasons come and go. One moment they seem to stretch into eternity, and the next you’ve blinked and wondered how it all passed so quickly. We swear we’ll never forget, but it’s been not even 4 months and I can’t recall the sound of the snow crunching beneath my feet or the sound of the birds on the first day of spring.

So we write, in attempt to always remember. We string together letters and words with the hope that sentences will bring back all the memories and feelings like how it was in the very beginning. 

This is my effort to never forget.

I fell in love with him—this man who sings hymns on 7-hour road trips and stops mid-sentence for the airplane flying overhead (even via FaceTime), this man who prays over our meals and our lives with a fervent passion and continues to teach me more and more about the God I serve, who cooks eggs every morning for his breakfast, and his mischevious eyebrow arch can be traced all the way back to the baby pictures. 

He took me on a roadtrip to see his 3 week old niece and nephew, and we cradled the scent of newborn in our arms. He tracked my plane and held me tight when it landed. We grocery shopped and cooked the macaroni and melted the cheese and had dinner together. That weekend he took me out at 10 o'clock to stargaze and watch the moon dance shadows on the Nebraskan fields below. We picnic lunched at a rest stop in the middle of the nowhere and it was there that he knelt on one knee and asked me to be his wife and share life with him for as many days as we have left. 

Sweet sunshine filtered through the tree tops above us, spilling patterns on the picnic blanket. The sky was this brilliant blue, with puffy white clouds all around. It was there that his question hung in the breeze. And it was there, looking into his eyes that I could see it all: the stargazing that first night in Haiti, the heart-wrenched sobs of a girl who was leaving a life behind and the way he just sat beside her, the night she killed the spider for him; the hopes for the future and the taste of adventure in his words; the late night FaceTime calls, the very hard and very long talks, the packages mailed and plane tickets bought. 

And it was there that I said yes. And it was there that we began the most terrifying and most beautiful adventure. 

The coffee mug is half empty sitting on the table beside me. I’m watching out the window for the bus to bring Fin home. My ring keeps catching on my coffee cup, clinking at every touch. I’ve whispered the words under my breath a hundred times… Spirit lead me where my trust is without borders, let me walk upon the waters wherever You would call me. Those words took a frightened 18-year-old to Uganda, to the world of special needs, and to a country where evil runs rampant. But I never anticipated it leading me to a nanny job in the suburbs, or a relatioship-turned-engagement. 

The past 5 months have been a whirlwind I’m still trying to keep up with. They’ve been hard, and beautiful, and unforgettable; thought-provoking and spiritually stretching and filled with such bliss. Some days I rest in the peace of knowing He has held and ordained every moment. At other times, I’m the one whispering late into the night, struggling to believe her God is good and gives only good gifts. 

Summer has only begun, but I can feel how fall is just around the corner. And it’s human nature to forget. So this, right here, is my effort, to always remember and choose to believe: 

there are things too beautiful to forget.

These Things that Remain Constant

What I miss is the sound of the rain on a tin roof. Thundering, it drowns out every other noise. I can close my eyes and see the 4-wheeler rumbling away, that small bundle of stubborn energy and spunk holding on tight. No one’s called me “Hannah” for 12 weeks now and I can’t remember the last time the power went out. I can still feel his red overalls, tattered and worn, beneath my fingertips. Rats don’t scurry in my ceiling at nighttime. 

How do you leave a life behind you, and remain the same?

It’s funny the things that bring it all back to you. And it only takes a moment-- a song, a line in a book, a sighting on the street, a photograph on your phone, a passing comment in conversation. Sometimes it’s nothing but the stillness. For here in the silent darkness, the whisper of memory surrounds you.

It leaves you aching.

I told him there would always be longing. I know longing the way one knows the feel of their skin and the sound of their breathing-- fully and intimately. Every moment is laced with it.

I know she mends—the girl with the broken heart. But I don’t know how. I know she always longs. Unlike the vapor and the raindrops, I know her aching never fully vanishes. Her life consists of a little bit of empty no matter where her feet wander. Because she’s tasted something more, something better, something far beyond.

Sometimes I want to forget. Memories burned in my mind puncture like a needle to the flesh—fragile and messy, painful. Yet how will we know the joy if we do not also know the ache? I remind myself of that on the nights where their faces haunt and that life of adventure feels so distant and fleeting. 

I hear Him beckon, here in this aching stillness. Like the pulsing in my veins and the breath in my lungs, there is this constant calling… 

There’s so much more love, so much more.

times of transitions

On the first day I brought the 2-year-old to preschool with two left shoes on his feet. We’ve come a ways since then, 7 weeks into this new job called nanny and new life in the States. But let’s be real, this past Friday the same 2-year-old wore pajama bottoms and oversized rain boots for a walk in the stroller. We will always be just a bit of a mess and a tad of some crazy.

Transitions are never easy, and I’ll admit there’s been an overwhelming number of them in the last 2 months. However, transitions also lead us to incredibly beautiful seasons. 

One year ago, I could’ve never imagined living the days I live now, or so deeply loving the moments the way I do. And I stand here knowing the only explanation for it all is His unfailing goodness.

Life today is a stark contrast from life 6 months ago. I’ve swapped duffel bags for diaper bags, passports and visas for car insurance papers and tax forms, international plane tickets for domestic flights, cold showers and sleepless nights for clean sheets and late-night FaceTimes. There are days the transition has happened with such ease I almost can’t imagine I lived any other way.  At other points I’m left with the wind knocked from my lungs, grappling to maneuver this very different way of life. In many ways, the last 2 months have been a harder walk of faith than the day I booked a plane ticket to Uganda for the very first time.

Transitions: never easy, always beautiful. 

I’ve struggled to know what it looks like to keep up this blog. Still riddled with a passionate desire to write, but unsure of what, now that the crazy classroom days and plane trips have come to an end. Life is still very much crazy. It’s as every bit exciting today as it was a year ago. And I’m just as much simultaneously thrilled and terrified as I was before, maybe even more so. 

Spring is coming. The 50-degree sunshine outside my window and chirping birds remind me of that the same way the chilly winds and gray skies do. Spring is coming. These transitions need only time.

beautiful nevers

The page has sat blank before my eyes for nearly an hour. My coffee has long gone cold. The sun that was hidden when I first sat down has now brought light to the morning. I just feel like the words should be eloquent. When you had 90 days upon 90 days, what do you say when you're down to the final 8? You could never imagine the story, but you definitely did not imagine this.

As it is with the ending of one season and the beginning of a new, you find yourself looking back. A lot. And replaying the moments in your mind from the very beginning.

There's the day they took in the girl whose last name they didn't even know. The day you taught that class for the very first time. There's the day you decided you were going back. There's the days you realized motherhood is the single most demanding job to exist. Ever. And somehow, you miss those crazy days. The day he grasped a toy and laughed to no end is forever burned upon your memory. There's the day he was carried from the poor house to the nursing home and this. is. love. You've seen an empty building brought to life. There's the season your heart was literally torn in two. And then.. then there's the day that make all the bad ones worth it. There's the day he stood tall.

Looking back, I said a lot of never's. I could never go overseas. I would never be able to leave my family for 6 months. I could never do special needs. I would never love a dark and desperate country 2 hours from the coast of Florida. I would never understand Creole (ok, that' still a work in progress). I could never be a teacher. I would never meet a guy I wanted to date. I could never be a nanny. I could never… never… never…

I marvel at the way He has taken my never's, and turned them beautiful.

By now you would think I would learn not to have never's. But I am stubborn Israel and I've forgotten. Still He proves relentless. His grace is limitless and His mercy great. And I stand thankful.

Some moments are too sacred for keyboards and blogposts. And these final days in Limbe are just that. You've followed the journey from its very beginning, and it is far from over. But the next week I want to remember with ink on journal pages and quiet coffee mornings, waiting for the sun. The last 5 weeks have been a struggle of messy and heartache. But I can also say it has been absolutely beautiful. Never have I been more tested to trust He holds our every moment. And never have I walked away more confident in His goodness.

He has ordained it -all of it- from the very beginning.

May it always be so.

when he stands

"Hard things can be good things.." I whisper it in his ears. His arms are locked tight around my neck and he screams, fighting me at every touch. I coax his stiff, bent legs and attempt to strap his feet into the grooves of the smooth wood beneath his toes. Sweat trickles between my shoulderblades. His brow is furrowed furious, those brown eyes wide with bewilderment and terror. His stander. 

We make it 4 minutes that first day. His posture is improper and we have such a ways to go. But it's 4 minutes. It gives me hope. 

He shakes when I pull him out and bring him upstairs. We put on his favorite music (Sleep At Last) as slowly he calms. I hold him tight as he catches his breath. I tell him he did so good. He cries at me. I tell him I know it hurts. He sighs heavy. I tell him I'm sorry. He puts his head against my chest.

Hard things can be good things. 

I realize I came back for this very moment. His two legs strapped into that stander as he screams relentlessly. That night I toss and turn, overcome with the emotion of it all. He will stand. If only because I am too stubborn to cease praying for it. 

The what-if game tempts me to play. There are nights I do, knowing full well that I am destined to lose. "If only you had more time… If only you came sooner… If only you had actual training… If only you weren't leaving…" If-only will run you ragged if you let it. 

For days I think on how he fights. He fights me. He fights the stander. He fights nutritious food. He fights the cup of water I hold to his dry lips. He fights sleep. He fights medicine. He fights everything good.

I am not so unlike this boy as I sometimes like to imagine I am. 

Again and again I will take him, for as many days as I have left, and I will beg him to see… hard things can be good things. My hands have inflicted pain, but only with great love. I'll cry over every shove and push and scream he throws my way. I whisper it quiet in his little ears, "I know you need to fight. Nothing about this feels nice or natural. So fight if you must, but do so with a trust that I love you." I will remember-- from his vantage point, he cannot see the way I can. What he perceives as great harm is actually appointed mercy. 

As the days pass, I watch him (ever-so slowly) learn to love his stander and it's closer than the humid air stuck to my skin-- this hope that one day he will walk. I dream big. I hope for things seemingly unattainable. Headfirst, I dive "all in". Sometimes the price I pay in heartache is dear. But watching this small boy, with his striped overalls and love for spaghetti, stand taller and taller with each passing day, I know it: every ounce of sweat and tears are well beyond worth it. 

Working with Michael's stander during my final days here in Limbe are a most precious gift. And my knees will bow in reverence to the One who made it all possible. Who am I, that I get to be a small part of the grand story the Lord is writing on this little boy's life? The thought leaves me breathless, forever grateful.

You are good, Lord. You are so good. 

One day he will walk. And the steps he endured to get there will make it all the sweeter. I choose to believe that one day I will hear the shuffle of his footsteps across cemented floors and the both of us will know: the hard things are always good things.

songbirds and sunshine

I hold a mug between my hands, watching the steam. The sun has not yet risen. She catches my eye as they often do here, that one tiny bird hidden among the tree leaves. They are far and few between in this country, those little song-singers. All to herself, she tweets and whistles. I wonder how long she's sat there, how long it's been since she started.

"Hush," I think. "It's too dark. Too early. There is no light yet." I take in the dark around me. "Hush. Now's not the time for singing…" And at barely 6 in the morning, I learn a great lesson from a songbird who is smaller than the size of my hands.

I often wait for the sun before I start to sing.

I worship Him, not because of where I stand or what He has done or how close I feel to Him. I worship Him for Who He is. Worthy. Many things will change, but that never will.

Sing in the light of the sun if that is where He has you. Let His goodness penetrate your skin and fall across your face. Take it all in. Let your words ring loud and your heart be overcome, knowing He delights in the sound of your voice. 

But if you find yourself in the dark, waiting for the sun, then sing there too. He will let your melody be sad, filled with minor tones and keys more black than white. And if your voice cracks, that's okay too. Sing. Sun or no sun. And watch as (though the circumstances change not) your worship sets the world right again.

Sing, love. And know the dark will not last. As surely as the sun will rise, He will come.

a letter to a small boy

Every day I pray you know how precious you are. Hear me loud and hear me clear: you have been fearfully and wonderfully made. Your Creator made no mistake when he shaped your infectious giggle, created that mischievous, knowing look in your big brown eyes, and formed your delicate fingers that weave themselves between my own. If you believe nothing else, believe this: you are a gift. Knowing you has been the greatest honor. 

You are amazing. In three months you taught me more than any university or college degree ever could've. Every toy grasped, every spin on your mats, every afternoon spent balancing on that yoga ball, all the times you practiced standing tall, I saw your strength and determination (and stubbornness too). They run deep. Those moments I will cherish forever.

Did you know I fell head-over-heels in love with you? How could I not, with your charming smile and sweet heart? You had me wrapped about your fingers from the very start, and I've since to become untangled. Thank you for letting me enter your little world and for allowing me to love you so.

From you I learned so many things. You taught me success is not measured in tasks accomplished or goals completed. From you I learned a person's a person, no matter how small. Because of you I believe each and every life holds significance. You taught me to laugh, if only because it is a most beautiful sound. You taught me to start looking up -way above the treetops- a whole lot more. Through you I learned all things wonderful will take time, a lot of work, and often many tears. Because of you I now know giving up is never an option, even when 3 weeks in shows no progress. You taught me the worthiest of things call for incredible vulnerability. I also learned there's no shame in loving only 2 kinds of food. 

Perhaps the greatest lesson you've taught me is that I should believe more, because I serve a great and mighty God.

You made me feel inadequate on so many levels. You're the reason I stayed up late, pouring over massage therapy and sensory play books. I didn't know how to love you, or reach you, or do best by you. You made me aware, again and again, of the complete desperate and helpless mess I am when I'm on my own. And it led me to where I have always belong-- grappling at the feet of my Savior. Thank you for always leading me there.

Your culture has and will continue to label you many things. Sweet Michael, this is important: don't believe a single word their voices throw at you. The labels are ones that break my heart, because they are given out of such ignorance. How I wish they could see what I see. You are filled with such greatness, if only they would stop to really see you. Because you, dear one, are amazing. 

I have been forever ruined by you in a most beautiful way. I don't think you realize the depth of your impact on me. You see, because of you, I have been inspired to pursue an utterly crazy dream. Because of you, I now have plans. Plans to help little boys and little girls just like you, doing my part to be an advocate for the voiceless and a defender of their sweet innocence. It's an exciting mess of confusion and fear, and a lot of unknowns about the future. But when those moments rush like the incoming tide, I remember you… your tattered red overalls, those perfectly crooked teeth, that heart-melter of a smile, and the fears hush. You are my inspiration. 

The weak made strong, the voiceless defended, the oft-outcast finally understood, the hurt hearts healed, the weary ones given rest… can't you just see it, love? With every fiber of my being I long to do my part (whatever and wherever it may be) to make such a vision possible. 

Leaving you is shattering my heart into a thousand pieces; it will never be whole again. But the ache reminds me our days were real, and hold great significance. I know if your lips would speak, they would tell of how you want this too. So know that, while my feet may be leaving, my heart remains with you. And I refuse to believe this is the end for us.

I'm praying to see you stand. Two legs, strong and tall, unsupported. This is my dream. I cannot wait to see that day. And the day you run. Whether it's 5 months, 5 years, or an eternity from now, my heart eagerly anticipates it. And while the statistics and early intervention books and all logic scream no, I will choose to whisper yes. I will believe, for you and for me. And one day, we will stand tall. 

All my love, 
Anna

scrambled eggs and rat tails

Three girls lay sleeping on the bunkbed across from me. The day's steady pounding of rain has turned to the sound of droplets. The power just flickered out. Haiti's night promises to be yet another long one.

Tomorrow is Thursday, at least I think it is. It's easy to lose track of the days when you live in a country where time literally means nothing. Three days into school has left me feeling overwhelmed and inadequate, as it usually does. Mentally adjusting to being back has been harder this time around than previous times, making me feel like I have a lack of patience in the schoolroom. The kids are doing well in school overall. They've remembered more than I imagined they would and my one little guy who tends to be a bit of a struggler has really been engaged and interested in class this time around. Pulling him out to work with him one-on-one has probably been my favorite aspect of school. I've loved watching his face light up as he "gets it" and the change in his overall attitude. There's an excitement for learning I hadn't seen before that's coming to life in him. And it's so cool to watch.

We cooked scrambled eggs for dinner tonight, and danced to Ben Rector and Rend Collective in a rat-infested kitchen. Once three little kiddos were snuggled warm in pajamas and the floor swept clean, we played math bingo and scrolled through my facebook newsfeed. I brought a children's Beginner's Bible back from the States, and we poured over the pages and pictures, reading the Christmas story. Slowly the giggle-fits quieted as three tired minds lost the fight to sleep. 

This late night in Limbe leaves me alone with my thoughts. And my furry little creatures who thump around in the ceiling- I think I'm thinking of calling them Templeton's Crew (Charlotte's Web readers, anyone?). That or "The Ferocious Team of Terror Rats".  Let's just say this new group of rats has me aching for the days when Gus Gus and his little friend Jacques were my biggest problem. And yes, anything past 8:30pm in Haiti is considered late.

Life is good here in Limbe. Some days leave me feeling more emotionally paddled than a ping-pong ball back and forth across the table. In one instant 4 more weeks sounds like an eternity I cannot endure, and the next moment I'm clawing and desperate for more time. In light of so many changes that are taking place, a big part of me wishes there was a fast-forward button to all of this. Skip the beginning-- skip the hard, the awkward, the sad, the uncertainty. Skip to where life is finally settled. Thankfully that is not an option; we would miss out on far too many crucial, precious moments if it was.

I find I'm continuously reminding myself He ordains our every moment. Nothing ever has been -nor ever will be- beyond His grasp, no circumstance inescapable from His great grace. As certain and real as the contented sighs from the bed across from me are right now, so these days of ours are all always God-breathed. 

being enough

The transitions are finally over. That's what I told myself 3 months ago as I packed away my Haitian life in totes to be stored until the new year. Routine happened, and I settled into her ways gladly. Somehow rats in the kitchen and screaming children and constantly smelling of pee and dirty sneakers became... well, strangely normal. And I could see myself in that crazy class, with those sensory-play afternoons, and the dirt and the joy and the hard for some time to come. I started to plan on it. After an adventurous journey out, I landed on American soil, thankful to be back in the country of hot running water and laundry that actually gets cleaned. Ready for a break, yet comforted to know my return tickets were booked. 

The past 3 years of my life have been new places, changes, unknowns, plane tickets, packing and unpacking and repacking the one thing that has remained constant-- my trusty green duffel. It's had its joys as well as challenges, its thrilling adventure alongside complete fear, immense heartache and laugh-until-you-cry memories. And I would do nothing differently. 

It started as an 18-year-old in love with the adventure of Uganda, and overtime grew to be what it was always meant to be: the adventure of loving Him. As I have transitioned to loving Him, rather than the places or the people or the cultures He brings me to, I have discovered something greater and far more precious than any country or language-- His heart. 

"Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart..." I like to think this means be a good person, do all the right things, live the right way, and God gives you what you want. The past three months have taught me that it's anything but. I'm learning to live out this verse, to find my sole delight in God Himself. And I'm watching -as my heart desires only Him- how that changes the longings of my heart. No longer do I ache for countries and cultures and plane rides the way I ache for Him. Yes, I love packed bags and hot climates and the blur of foreign languages. I think I always will. But because I love Him more, I long more for what He wants.

In March I start a job as a full-time nanny for a most incredible family in the northwest suburbs of Chicago. There truly is no way to capture the immense bittersweetness of this season. But God has made it all so evident that this is what He has next. I am head-over-heels for this sweet boy and his family, and so beyond-words excited for what the next year brings. However the weight of these too-soon looming goodbyes is a constant weight that laces every moment. 

"You are enough for me..." I've whispered it walking through Bugiri hospitals where babies lay starved and toddlers burned. "You are enough for me..." I whispered it when she died, when special needs was overwhelming terrifying, when I was blinded by tears of homesickness. "You are enough for me.." I whispered it when I wanted to escape a small, suffocating island in the Caribbean, when rats ate crackers in my bedroom, when the classroom got crazy and I doubted morning would come. 

Now I need to learn to whisper it in the land where there is enough- where the electric stays on all night and comfort poses threat on my soul. You are enough for me. Always. 

There are ways in which this decision seems absolutely crazy and ways in which it seems absolutely perfect. My steps will tread in peace, because I know this is what He has planned next. And "next" is all I ever need to know. For when have I ever seen anything but good come from His hands? It's not heartbreak free, nor is it comfortable or easy. Most days, I want to run... but in the core of me I know: it is always good. 

And so I will stand in the land of because He says so. And I will choose to believe His goodness will never fail us.

seasons and transitions

The thought is bittersweet: This is the last night of good sleep you’ll be getting for a while. I’m in pajamas by 8:30, and curled under the covers by 9. I fight with sleep, stubbornly refusing her to steal these precious moments. The countdown consists of hours now.  Chai steams hot in my favorite blue mug the next morning. I stay in pajamas and stocking feet until a ridiculously embarrassing hour of the morning. Sunlight filters through the windows, my spot on the couch cozy-warm. I scroll through blogfeeds and articles, my phone buzzes with a text, "Sleeping At Last" is on my Pandora shuffle. There are no rats here. No howling dogs. No ants in the sugar.

Tomorrow I will head to the airport at a ridiculous 3 in the morning, and my feet will be walking Haitian soil by 12 o’clock noon. The past 2 months have been a whirlwind-- emotionally, physically, spiritually, and mentally exhausting. Yet, so beautiful.

My duffel is packed, filled with water balloons and sensory-play toys and a chocolate stash that isn't quite sufficient for life in Haiti. My passport has been dug out from the chest of important papers and plane tickets confirmed. I have a carry-on stuffed with 42 diapers, countless short readers, and osh-kosh overalls sized 5T. The last load of laundry is in the dryer, every bill has been paid, all the odds and ends tied neatly as possible.

It’s all coming back, like the rushing of the tide… the laughter, the water balloon fights, afternoon senior walks, his infectious fits of hysteria , the mangos that thud the roof, responding to “Hannah” again.

Transitions are never easy. But to everything, there is a season.

“A time to cry and a time to laugh.

A time to grieve and a time to dance.”

- Ecclesiastes 3:4

Cannot wait to hear these giggles again :)