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.

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.

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.

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 :) 

When You're Buying The Bread Alone

or: the One who can feed the multitudes

I can feel his desperation as he surveys the crowd before him. The air is heavy with it. It's midday, and the nearest store is miles away. The hopelessness sinks in deep as he looks down at his hands, seeing how little he has to offer. His voice is thin, cracking at every word, "How far will it go among so many?" He stands there. Completely broken. Completely overwhelmed. I know it because I, too, have stood there.

The crowd is dauntingly large and the afternoon sun scorches everything it lands on. The crowd is murmuring, growing restless from the exhaustion and the heat. Feet scuffle and the unrest grows as the young ones cry out and the whispers mound. They hear his voice amidst the low rumble of the crowd.  "Where will we buy the bread?" At a loss for words, the air grows silent. They look on, dumbfounded. How can it be the One who knows all and holds all is asking the question? He had all the answers until now.

Moments pass. His question hangs there, suspended in mid-air. Even if bread could be found, and enough bread at that, how could they even buy it all? "Eight months wages would not buy enough for each one to have a bite!" The direness of the situation is not lost on any one of them. There is no denying it: they are desperate. The need here is greater than any person could fill. He steps forward, outstretched hands trembling. But he gives all he has-- 5 loaves, 2 fish. And his mustard-sized seed of hope.

"How far will it go among so many???"

The question haunts me, eating me away piece by piece. I know Andrew's doubt. I can taste the despair on the back of my tongue and feel it in my very bones. In a country where the need is so great, I look at what my outstretched hands have to offer. And I want to run, abandoning hope with every step.. because how can one girl living in the small town of Limbe help the multitudes? Really? The realization is backbreaking, the sense of defeat leaving me a crumpled mess on the floor. There is so much need just within these four walls, much less the roads you walk outside of here. Anything you may do literally makes you feel as though you are emptying the ocean with an eyedropper. It's never enough.

There is one who reaffirms my every doubt, and thrives on my feelings of inadequacy and regret. He tells me over and over again what logically cannot be accomplished. He makes certain I know that what I have to offer is not as good as the next guy's, so why even bother? He reaffirms my greatest fear, saying it's all been in vain- all the spelling words and the afternoons spent doing sensory play and stopping by the nursing home; the life I left in Chicago. Paralyzed by the overwhelming situation, I fall prey to his lies more times than I'd care to admit.

Yet still, there is One who speaks, and at His voice all falls silent. It's in the silence that I remember, and only there can I hear Him, "I never asked you to buy the bread alone, love." 

Oh, how quick I am to forget. 

What I have given can never reach to the ends of the crowd; it will hardly make it past the first small handful of people. But that's when I remember: I didn't give it to the crowd. I gave it to the One who turns water into wine and fills the nets with fish until they overflow and feeds the multitudes on 5 loaves and 2 fish. With eyes fixed not on the crowd, but on my sweet, ever-loving Jesus, I've entrusted to Him all that I have to offer. And only He is the one who can make it enough.

Throughout my life, I have been blessed with the opportunity to watch Him feed the multitudes again and again. And the past few months have been no exception. I have watched the ones around me take all that they have and all that they are, and offer it to the One who provides, the One whose steadfast faithfulness remains true from generation to generation. Their trust and humility and servant-hearted attitudes are nothing less than humbling and inspiring to stand in the midst of, stirring those who witness it to a deeper level of child-like faith. 

I don't know where you're finding yourself today. Maybe you've walked faithfully for years, with your eyes gazed solely on the One who can do infinitely more than we ever dare dream of. Or perhaps.. maybe just perhaps, I'm not standing alone here tonight, surveying the multitudes and the bread loaves in my hands? There's a lot I don't know, but this I'm certain of: I've spent too much time paralyzed by the crowds. I know not what the future holds, but I know Who I want to spend it gazing at.

"How far can it go among so many?" It falls on my ears again, the very same question. Only this time, the voice is strong, bold, full of expectant hope. Because this time, his eyes are not on the crowd. This time, he gazes right into the eyes of the One who can. And he knows he stands on holy ground.

Being Back

otherwise entitled: why children shouldn't help you unpack your bags

Back. After 3 plane rides, 2 nights of restless sleep and a lot of heartbreaking goodbyes. Back. Where the hello’s have been the sweetest and I’ve yet to stop sweating (seriously). Back. With their laughter echoing in my ears and his smile so wide it melts my heart. Back. Where everything seems different and yet nothing has changed. Back. To where I am so close while also so far from the ones I love. It is absolutely lovely to be back.

The plane landed at 10:15 in the morning and stepping out into the humid Haiti air, it seemed a bit surreal to be back. Customs passed without a hitch thanks to Vero and immediately upon walking out of the airport gates Jason was there to help with my bags and the overwhelming flood of people who want to try to help you with your luggage. It was a most precious sight to open the trunk of the car and see 4 little faces peeking over the back of the seat. The girls ransacked my luggage in search of my Haitian phone, wanting to play games. And driving through Cap Haitien back to Limbe I took in the all-too-familiar sights of the now well-known drive home. I dropped my bags in my room, cleaned spotless by sweet Nikki. I felt incredibly spoiled by such a sweet treat. It was a huge blessing to not have to sweep and mop and pick up stuff before settling in.

Seeing the kids again was the sweetest, and filled with a mix of reactions—excited hugs, shy giggles from around doorway corners, and only Creole speaking I couldn’t pick out. I found my little buddy chilling in his pac ‘n’ play and was welcomed back with his hands about my shoulders and a wide smile I haven’t seen since December that near melted my heart. Absolutely precious. Mikey chilled upstairs with me as I began the tedious process of unpacking, giggling and cooing every time the oscillating fan blew his direction. We chatted about the last three months of our lives, checked out some of the sensory toys packed in the bags, basically got next to nothing unpacked, and it was absolutely perfect.

I forget exactly how it happened, but at some point in the day I found myself in my bedroom with Rudlen and Mayline ‘helping’ me unpack. We started out making successful strides in the world of “how do I sort through all this crap?!” There were excited gasps and goofy giggles at some of the contents in my bags—short readers, pretty dresses, a light up bouncy ball, flashlights, and my underwear— accompanied by countless pleads from Rudlen of, “This! This one! May I have?” He would take out the flashlight batteries thinking I wasn’t looking and turn to me, “See? It’s broken. No good.” Haha. The child has a serious fetish for flashlights.

Eventually progress turned to madness, ending in Jahntzy opening my box of chai while three-quarters of Rudlen got stuck under the bunkbed. Wildaneise pranced the room wearing two layers of my clothing and sweet Mayline stood by my side asking, “What else, Hannah? What else do we put away?” We decided it was time for a break and made iced tea before heading back downstairs.

Jason was the sweetest and left his afternoon clear so that he could take me to run errands—money exchanging, phone minutes, internet stick, all the essentials. We sat in natcom for quite a while, where we learned I needed a new SIM for my internet stick that would cost a whopping 50 cents extra. The unexpected expense near broke my budget, let me tell you :) While we ran errands, I got caught up on a bit of Nikki and Jason’s lives and some of what’s been going on in Limbe since May.  They leave next Tuesday for their time in the States, and while I’ll miss their friendship dearly, it will be good for them to catch a break for a while. Jason is so faithful in sharing the Gospel, telling me story after story of people he has shared Christ with and the ways God had used him to speak truth to the people here. It is all together humbling, convicting, and inspiring.

I closed my door that evening and tackled my mess of a bedroom full on. There’s still some stuff not put away, but overall it feels fairly put-together… at least, as much things can be in Haiti. After calling home I slept soundlessly from about 8:45-12:30, much thanks to the white noise app Sarah downloaded to my phone before I left. Best. Thing. Ever. Dogs howled on and off throughout the night, pretty sure I heard a rooster going off, and I’m half expecting to run into a rat here at any time, so the second half of the night was a bit of a restless one as I readjust to the nights no longer being peaceful and quiet. The power came on at 6, waking me from the hard sleep I had finally fallen into an hour before. But it was power, so I couldn’t be frustrated. Electricity is greater than one more hour of sleep.

In the time it’s taken to write this, the kids have been at my door about half a dozen times and the sky has turned from shades of orange to a full on bright blue. It’s been three months since I’ve written anything on here. I’m dusting off the keyboard and breaking the silence, working out the kinks as I fall back into the pattern of writing for more than just myself. For now I’ll leave you with a photograph of what was possibly the highlight of my day yesterday—cuddles with this little cheeky monkey.