something new

Moved to a new place: hannahgracesblog.weebly.com :)

I've gotcha.

Wednesday was Gotcha Day.  It's been exactly nine years since we picked you up in that little orphanage, met your cribmates, and touched your soft curls.  I remember walking past your room, with all those other babies, on the way to sign papers.  I didn't want to ruin the first moment of meeting you, so I didn't look for too long and instead hurried with mom and dad to the tiny office.  Sarah and I sat on the chairs behind the desk while official things happened.  Finally, after waiting for more than a year to know your name and your face, we walked into that room and I held you.

I'd never had a little brother before, so I'm not sure what to compare it to.  We were a quiet, introverted little family before you came along, but baby + boy adds some noise to the house.  I can't imagine it any other way.  You may possibly be the only little brother to sing (albeit grudgingly) "Do You Love Me" from the Fiddler on the Roof with me.  I don't think much about life before you.  I don't even think about what the future looks like.  Being with you is being in the present.  Tears in my eyes, I think of how you persistently ask, in your own way, for us to do things with you.  Your persistence in asking me to read to you, even when I'm doing my own work.  I think of you asking for your favorite movie, over and over and over.  You don't think about the future - whether you'll be able to live independently and take care of yourself and learn to read and have full conversations.  You trust us to take care of you, to take you to school and feed you and hold your hand when we cross the street.  You don't remember what happened five minutes ago, when I got upset with you, as sisters generally do with little brothers.  You're forgiving, in a trustful, childlike way.

I don't realize how much I've learned from you until I sit and remember.  Today I made you come and hug me and I held your still-little but long body, and I want to keep you that way forever.  But you are ten now, and you won't stop growing.  Grow, grow.  Fill more hearts with the joy God so graciously gave you. 

how to take it all in.

Or at least try.  I'm convinced that you can't take in all of a good thing.  Midnight jam sessions, hearing a familiar voice around the corner of the hallway, seeing a smile in the rearview mirror of the van.  I stood outside the visitor center, staring at Niagara Falls, and tried to feel it.  The sight, the sounds, the smell, the presence of the people standing with me.  So that I could remember.  Walking away, I asked someone on my team if he ever tried to take in something beautiful and couldn't.  "All the time."

So we all sit, laugh, hug, do life together.  Trying to take it in with our minds, our hearts.  Everything looks perfect from far away, and leaving camp makes me want to be there forever.  "Come down now," but we'll stay.

I hate goodbyes.  They compared saying goodbye to mourning the loss of a friend.  The physical pain that comes from goodbyes is real.

I'll tell you this: I can't figure out whether it was a good idea or not to read Tennyson after coming home.  Memoriam is his poetry about the death of his close friend.  So many pages of hard and beautiful goodbye.

     "I hold it true, whate'er befall;
      I feel it, when I sorrow most;
     'Tis better to have loved and lost
      Than never to have loved at all."

I know better than to compare saying goodbye to brothers and sisters to death, because we don't ever really say goodbye. We're never separated, because something strong aside from us binds us together. But saying goodbye sure feels like death sometimes.

I know the sadness will pass, my heart will heal, and I'll be able to think of them without hurting.  I'll look at pictures, remember their laughter, listen to our music, and it won't feel like goodbye.  I hope it will feel like I can't wait to see you.

I don't know why God gave us emotions.  It would feel better if I didn't feel at all.  Or maybe it wouldn't.  I think the worst part is how cliche I feel.  I'm not the only one in the world that's cried a hard goodbye, and the ways I'm describing it aren't novel.  But thank goodness that doesn't invalidate it.

I don't know how to take in the love of God fully.  None of us can, I suppose.  I know the truth of it, and I believe it.  But living like it's true, that His love is overwhelming and satisfying at the same time - that's harder.  I forget.  Or it's just difficult to line up my emotions with what I know is true. Feeling His love doesn't make it real, but because it's real I can feel it.

So how?  I've been trying to grasp that the love with which my people at camp love each other is a tangible reflection of God's love for us.  The way they ask me how I'm doing, the way they hug me and don't let go, the way they're consistent and steadfast - that's Christ in them.  That doesn't come from them - it comes through them.  It's a direct reflection of His love, and that's how He loves.  He hugs me and doesn't let go.  Sometimes He sends people to manifest that love, and sometimes it's just me sitting in His presence where He holds me.  "So we have come to know and to believe the love God has for us.  God is love, and whoever abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him." [1 John 4:16]

I read John 16:20-24 the other day.  I can't imagine how the disciples felt when they realized Jesus was leaving them.  The community of believers only mirrors community with Christ.  The love of believers only mirrors the love of Christ.  Jesus tells them, "truly, truly, I say to you, you will weep and lament, but the world will rejoice.  You will be sorrowful, but your sorrow will turn into joy. ... So also you have sorrow now, but I will see you again, and your hearts will rejoice, and no one will take your joy from you."  He recognizes the realness of their sorrow, but He promises that they'll see Him again. He promises them lasting joy.

When I miss the people He lets me love, when my head and my heart aren't on the same page, when I am weak - let the joy of the Lord be my strength.

old portraits | blake

rusty.

mid-may

Here I am, sitting again at this little blog of mine, trying to water what's been wilting while I was busy attending to other pursuits.  Maybe I write because I need to process.  Maybe I write because I want to remember.  Maybe I write because it keeps me alive.

I haven't written much lately.  My green journal has sat on my dusty table or in the cabinet with my school books where it's dark.  Maybe my lack of writing has made me feel like I didn't have a good grip on the semester that just passed.  Not in the I-haven't-been-able-to-process-and-I-feel-behind kind of way.  More in the I'm-floating-by-depending-on-my-hard-work-and-time-with-people-and-not-spending-enough-time-with-my-Savior kind of way. 

I did my laundry today, and helped mom with the vacuuming.  Some of my friends are graduating tomorrow - from high school and college - and it's weird to find myself exactly halfway between.  Does finishing finals for sophomore year automatically make you a junior, or does that happen when school starts again in the fall?

I like my Pinterest better than my Instagram.  Maybe it's because I'm better at collecting other people's pretty ideas than at coming up with my own.  Does it take anyone else a lot of effort to post a picture on Instagram, much less come up with a caption?

In two weeks, I leave home to begin a summer adventure for a few weeks.  I'm excited, but it hasn't hit me yet.  That's ok.

Half of the sky is blue and clear, and the other half is dark and cloudy.  It rained earlier while the sun was out.  It even hailed.  Paradoxes intrigue me.


currently

I'm back at home for three weeks in between my bookend camp adventures.  Good rest, my own bed, honest conversations with mom and dad, and Monte Cristo sandwiches have filled my time this weekend.  And it's been good.

I am learning how to talk about myself.  I am learning how to talk in general.  Talking is hard; maybe that's the real reason I write.  I'm also learning what it means to speak, but not use my own words.  I'm learning to recognize the moments where my words would be insufficient, so God fills in for me.  I'm taking Him up on His dare in James 1:5: ask for wisdom, and watch what happens.  He fills in, He provides words, He gives understanding, He breaks bad things apart and binds good things together.

So far, I've just been processing, writing down memories, and listening to my melancholy playlist, with a few happy songs thrown in for good measure.  I've also been feeling content.  Strange how that can't come from inside me - it's always given from above.  Last night I knew home is where I'm supposed to be right now.  I helped lead worship at my school's orientation for incoming freshmen, and God used a couple of worship songs, some bumpy transitions, and the power of the Gospel to move in our hearts.  About fifteen to twenty people trusted Christ last night, and I was part of the welcoming committee to the family.  It blows my mind.  Little reminders that we build kingdoms, whether our own, or His.

where the music takes me.

As of late, I've taken up the big table by the windows in the quiet section of the library, where I sit in the sun or under the rolling clouds, and I neglect homework to look down from the second story at all the people passing by on the sidewalk outside.  The most striking thing is the way they stare at their phones.  Those electronics that fit in their hands, or their pockets.  It seems as if no one is capable of walking alone - without friend or phone.

But I can't say that I'm any different.  Introvert to the core, I sometimes avoid eye contact with people I don't know (and sadly, sometimes the ones I do).  I admire those that make others comfortable by their mere presence.  The ones who draw me out and encourage, and call me by my name.  

Looking people in the eye is scary.  Because sometimes, I accidentally stumble on their souls.  Maybe this is why I spend so much time by myself, in the library, thinking, studying, watching.  It's easier.

I am comfortable in my rolling chair at this table by the windows, and I listen to Bethel and take it slow. Some music is timeless; it doesn't take me to a particular decade or year, but a place.  And sometimes, that place is a person, or a group of people.  A van ride at 3pm.  A worship night where someone asks me to pray for them, and we both hold hands and cry.  A midnight walk under the stars in the cold, wet grass to sing hymns in a gazebo.  A birthday party at ranch with horses and lots of people where I turn 9.  A piano competition where I don't win, but my teacher cries happy tears.  An orphanage in a third-world country where I hold a little boy in the heat and realize he will now be my brother.

this is our God

For a long time, I've found something grand and comforting in the proclamation, "this is our God."  It fills me with a confidence, a strength, a peace.  Taking pride and boasting in our God.  A battle cry, of making a stand and not being afraid.  For we have God on our side.

Now more than ever, I have begun to understand what it means to take comfort and be filled with (good) fear for our God.  His power is infinite and His strength never fails.  How good it is to be His child, able to trust in His protection as my Father and release my fears to Him as my Healer.

Isaiah 25:9

In that day they will say,

“Surely this is our God;

we trusted in him, and he saved us.

This is the Lord, we trusted in him;

let us rejoice and be glad in his salvation.”