An Update

Nebraska’s skies are bright and blue, with cotton-like clouds scattered across a vast stretch of emptiness. There’s a peaceful stillness to the air here. Throughout the day, a mama bird flutters to and from her nest buried behind the gutters of our garage. The wind gives the curtains a gentle, steady rustle. And every so often, the sound of car driving by drifts through the ever-open window.

East First Street has been home for 3 weeks now. The gray-blue house with white windows and doors is slowly becoming ‘our place’. There are seeds planted along the front porch garden box, tomato plants growing in the backyard, and an herb garden on the kitchen window. We’ve baked cookies, forgotten house keys, washed the sheets, and broken a glass or two in our efforts to turn a house into a home.

Life is good. It is an extreme sort of different for this born-and-raised city girl, and I am reminded of that difference every time the northern wind brings the smell of the feed yard into my house, or the woman at the grocery store knows my name, or I can literally get anywhere in less than 5 minutes. But it is good. 

We are adjusting to life as we learn this unfamiliar dance called marriage. There are days we find ourselves lost in the bliss of doing life together, something so simple yet so beautiful. Other days we find ourselves overwhelmed by a future riddled with countless unknowns, desperate for time and answers we don’t quite have. Some days we stand bold and confident, excited to embark on the adventure He has laid out before us. And at other times, we falter and we fear and we shake, questioning just how exactly this is going to work. 

We find ourselves riding a roller coaster of emotions—excited, terrified, confident, unsure, homesick, wonder-filled, frustrated, joyful. Life comes in waves. But it is good, always so good. And God proves Himself faithful again and again, in both the little and the big ways. And we find Him bigger and stronger and mightier than our fickle hearts.

There are lots of plans happening and many changes in the works (one of which includes a new blog). So don’t stray too far, because we are excited to share this journey and all that God is up to.

Unending Change

January comes with snowy mornings and pale sunshine. Its gray skies and ice cold days leaving the fireflies and grass-y smell of summer a memory. The new year has been laced with memories of, “Remember a year ago…” 

C.S. Lewis once wrote, “Isn’t it funny how day by day nothing changes, but when you look back, everything is different?” 

Amidst the wedding planning and the nannying days, the way those words resound in my heart is taken to whole new meaning. So much has changed in such short time. Hard maybe, but never bad. Exciting, yes, alongside challenging and stretching. I don't know that one can transition from one season to the next without using the word, “Bittersweet.” 

New cannot come without the old dying. Anticipation of tomorrow does not stand without some sort of goodbye to today. Every possible dream for the future is weaved with excitement, but threaded through the past is a sadness of sorts for something that is ending. 

Change is good. But change is hard. 

I have these conflicting desires. On one hand rests a desire for everything to always be new and different and exciting, for things to constantly be changing. On the other hand, I find myself with a want for the comfort of stability, the constant that comes with routine, the certainty that one can have when things stay the same. 

January turned the corner and I suddenly saw 2016 as the year of changes. Finishing my nannying job, a day-to-day living of life with a family which feels too intimate to be called a job. Marrying the man whose name makes me smile, whose gentle kindness melts me, and who gives the best hugs. Moving across states from the city to a small town, taking his last name and being known as his wife. Leaving the only home he’s known, boxing our few belongings, and leaving the States behind to fly to Haiti.

Every time the leaves change on the treetops, so will our lives. The thought is a bit daunting.

I think the fear is normal, maybe even necessary. Change and fear have this beautiful way of reminding me where I should put my hope. The seasons always change. Our lives cannot remain exactly as they are today. There is a time for everything under the sun, as the author of Ecclesiastes wrote. 

In the year of change and inconsistency and newness comes this whispering, “Embrace..” 

Embrace this, child. Embrace every single change through every single season. Because you know the One who does not change.

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.

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.

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.

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.