Stop, drop and. . .pray

I was supposed to leave for Honduras tomorrow, but I guess things don't always work out as planned. On Sunday, June 28, 2009, the president of Honduras, Manuel Zelaya, was taken by force from his home by soldiers in the first military coup since the Cold War. Roberto Michelett was named as interim president, and since the coup, protesters have taken to the streets and other countries, including the U.S., say they will not recognize any president other than Zelaya unless they are elected democratically. I have no idea how long I will have to wait before I leave. I know I have to trust God's timing, but it's hard not to be impatient and frustrated. I was all packed and ready to go, but sometimes God asks us to wait.

Before any of this happened and I had any idea I wouldn't be able to go as planned, I heard an amazing sermon on Sabbath. And now in retrospect, the sermon was just what I needed, and would need, to hear. Barry Black, the chaplain of the U.S. Senate, spoke at our campmeeting. I'd only heard him speak once before, but I was definitely more impressed this time than the first. He spoke about prayer. This man has the ability to captivate an audience. I think part of it is his deep voice, but he's funny too. He said something that really made a lot of sense. He said most of the time when we pray, we are OK when God says 'yes,' and even when He says 'no.' However, when God doesn't say anything, that's when we struggle. His message was for Christians to let love be their motivation for prayer and to keep trusting even when He doesn't answer right away. Well, God seems to be saying 'no,' right now, but I am not going to get discouraged. My prayers are with those in Honduras now, especially Amanda who is already at the orphanage.

I hope this is resolved soon.

And so it begins. . .

All it takes is a split decision. Mine happened in a world religions class. Most mornings it was difficult to focus, my mind slowly adjusting to new ideas and cultures at a time before many people even roll out of bed or drink their morning coffee. But that day was different. The video was about Tibetan Buddhism, and in one scene a worshipper prostrated himself before an idol. I snapped awake as the narrator said, “There are still many people who have never heard the name of Jesus.”

I guess you could say that’s where it all started. I’d thought about being a student missionary before, but never considered it, seriously that is. Growing up I'd heard what seemed like millions of mission stories, whether they were on tapes at bedtime or presentations at church. I had always known that many, many people around the world didn't know about Jesus, but up until that point I don't think I'd really cared. I can't say I had this huge change of heart or anything like that, but I know that day in class God put a small burden on my mind.

A few of my other friends apparently felt it too, because we went to the Student Missions Expo and started looking into the various places we could go. I picked Honduras, mostly because I wanted to use my Spanish. I started paperwork and fundraising around December 2008. One of the most amazing blessings was how my first money came in. I hadn't even sent out my letters at that point, but when I returned to school after Christmas vacation, a letter was waiting for me that contained more than 75 percent of what I needed to raise, which was a really big amount. I couldn't believe it. I was ecstatic! It seemed like a pretty big sign that this was what God did want for me.

I finished up at Southern and graduated in May. God blessed me with an amazing senior year. Two of my good friends have also chosen to serve God this coming year. Michelle will be going to Chad to work as a nurse and Aldo will be teaching in Palau. So, I have had some time to relax and prepare myself at home, but the time has come to leave. I will be leaving for Honduras this Tuesday, June 30, and plan to keep this blog to share my adventures, struggles and triumphs with everyone back home. In Honduras I will be working at the Hogar de Ninos Orphanage in Santa Barbara.

I just want to make one disclaimer. Don't expect to read about miracles. Let me explain. I feel that even though no one would ever admit to it, many people secretly relish in reading mission blogs. Why? Because they expect to hear about the mighty things God is doing. They expect to hear stories about how God has parted the sea, healed the sick and saved the lost, all through one, little missionary. I am not going to Honduras to do any of those things. My aim and purpose is to sow seeds of love, kindness and peace. My one desire is to make a difference, no matter how small, in the lives of those I come into contact with. I do not expect God to raise the dead or heal the sick, but I have faith He will use the seeds I sow to bring to life a desire for salvation and cure souls diseased with sin. If you are expecting to read stories about visible miracles, you might not find them here. I believe one of the greatest miracles is invisible, the change of heart that only God can see, and that is my mission and aim for this year. I also hope He will work changes in my own heart.

Oh yeah, I'm human. I'm going to be homesick, tired and frustrated. I need prayer every day. So as you read my blog, please remember to pray for me. And don't forget, you don't need to go to another country to be a missionary. . .

-Hannah

A walk down memory lane

So, I used to blog a lot. I had a Xanga in high school and wrote an entry almost every day. I decided to go back and read some of my blogs, just for old time's sake. . . I found this one particular entry that I really enjoyed reading and will post it here. It was written a few weeks before I graduated high school in 2005.

Man, it seems like such a long time ago. It WAS a long time ago. Many of my thoughts from that year are still so similar to what I feel now, yet I have changed so much. . .

Here is my entry:

I've just been really stressed out lately. . .the last day or so, and it's all my own fault. I am a master procrastinator, and I wait until the last minute to do things. . .bad idea. Today was horrrible. I am failing my Physics test, and I don't even care as much as I should. Right now I'm putting off studying for Precalc, and I'm not even worried. It's bad, but I think I'm letting go of high school. I'm letting go of the people there, the classes, the homework, the hours spent in its winding sessions of drama. . .all gone. My life is like an unfinished rope. There are so many different pieces to it, and some of them are fraying, some are unique and pointless, and others just hold it together. Each new person I meet, I add a piece to the rope, and together we hold on. . .on and on and on. We walk through life, we make memories, we dance, we laugh, we sing, we talk. . .but sometimes we hold on too tight or too loose, and we get tangled up and confused. There comes a point to where there are so many people holding on to me, that I feel warm and happy. There are those who make me stronger, those who make me happier, and those who give me more love then I deserve. Why would I ever let go of my rope. . .of their rope. . .of his or her rope. . .why? Sometimes it's necessary to let go because holding on is fraying the rope and cutting off my air supply. I just have to let go, to break free. I think I've finally let go. . .but yet there are still pieces left, threads that remind me of the good times, the bad times, and the memories. Even if I'm no longer holding on, I can still walk. . .

Please walk with me. . .down memory lane

Remember me when the sun fades and flowers die

Take my hand, it's cold as ice

Believe me, I really did try

~Han

Here is another similar post about leaving high school behind:


These pictures evoke emotions from me. They evoke feelings and ideas, memories and speculation of the future, but they cannot sum up in words what my heart feels as I near the end of the beginning. I have traveled through time to this very moment, and what have I seen and felt in those fleeting years which are my wake of fluid travel? I am about to graduate. I am about to leave all of what I have worked for behind, but yet I am not fully leaving it behind. I am using it as stepping stones to bring myself closer to the sun, closer to knowledge and light. I will miss so much about my years in high school. I will miss the carefree and immature actions that brightened my days. I will miss the faces, the smiles, the laughter of so many. I feel as though I am closing a door behind on a room filled with memories. Each memory is sweeter and more precious then the last, and each is filled with hollow echos of those I have held so dear. I began high school timid, unsure, and self-conscious. I like to think that I am leaving it confident, happy, and with no regrets. Where I will go to achieve my dreams is yet to be seen. Will I find them all in one place, or will I travel the world in search of the answers? I cannot search for happiness, because that is found only in one place, and that is right here within me. What creates this happiness is the thing to be found, and I know that moments are fleeting. . .that things change from one moment to another. I am content for now it seems. I only know that as sun turns to rain, that life is filled with necessary pains. The rain is miserable, but it nurtures and strengthens each plant, and when the sun comes out again, they reach yet higher toward the light and joy of life. I guess you could say this is me wording how I feel about these chapters of my life. I've made my choices and dealt with them, and now the cake is made. All I am asking for is the cherry to go on top. . . .

Inquisitive

The things that come out of kids' mouths. . .

"Hannah, do we have to get all our giggling out before heaven," asked Justin, my 7-year-old nephew, at the dinner table.

I stifled a laugh because it would have been hurtful to his inquisitive heart, but it was difficult because laughing comes very naturally to me. In fact, I hope I will have even more reasons to laugh in heaven than I do here.

I promptly told him that there would be plenty of laughing in heaven. Jesus wants us to be happy, here and there.

My niece and two of my nephew's are here staying with us for a few days and they continue to amaze me with their intelligence and progress. They are definitely not angels, but they have gone through much in their young lives, and I praise God for the joy and happiness He is instilling in their minds as they learn and grow more each day. They are smart, talented, driven kids. Sometimes they're loud and rambunctious and have a hard time doing what they're told, but at the end of the day, their innocence and heartfelt affection are what I remember most. They grow up while I am away, and when I return for a fleeting visit, they rush back into my arms with eager smiles and I realize sadly that they've grown even taller and won't be little much longer.

Oh, beautiful youth. Its innocence. Joy. Exhuberance.
You grow up in a few years, but grow old for a lifetime.
Can't fight age, wrinkles, time.
Each day brings more knowledge, more burdens, more problems.
I've been fighting growing up and growing old.
I want to be forever young.
Away from me, vile age and worry. I cling to the innocence of a child.

Please remind me next time. . .

Last week I went on a dueling 8-mile bike ride with my mother. I swore I would never do it again as I panted my way up the over-sized hill to my house, streams of sweat trickling down my spine and beading above my brow.

Somehow it happened again.

It was hard to resist. The sun had finally broken free from the dark chains of clouds that hung over the mountains for the past few days, and a bike ride seemed like a good idea. Well, if my mom, who just broke her back at the end of February and turned 63 in May, could do it, well, I darn well SHOULD be able to at 22. So, we set off. The first part of our bike rides are always deceiving because they're all down hill. I inhaled the sweet air as it rushed past me, trees and light blurring together in a symphony of summer greenery. The way back is always a different story though. I hopped off my bike to begin the climb, holding tightly to my newly acquired Uncle Henry's [a magazine containing ads of things for sale in the area]. Half-way up I had to stop, panting and swatting at the persistent mosquitoes that were basking in my discomfort. Why? Why do I always put myself through this, I pondered. Is it really worth it? I doubled over my bike and continued to heave myself toward home.

Next time, please remind me. . . and maybe I'll skip the shower first too. However, leaving my cool comfort zone to risk the sweat of the outdoors is always worth it. I'm about to leave my cool comfort zone of a home in a few weeks to brave the sweaty outdoors of another country. Honduras is going to test my endurance. I know there will be plenty of emotional and physical sweat involved, but I will press forward toward the goal/home. . . Not my earthly home, but the one in the sky where I will one day see my Saviour and the lives I, by the grace of God, have impacted along my travels.

Philippians 3:14
I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus.


I baked a cake last night for my dad. Below is the finished product.

Land O' Lakes

Disclaimer: This post isn't about butter. Sorry for the misleading title :)





To me water is almost as important as air. I don't particularly like to drink water, which isn't a good thing because one day I will probably forget and dehydrate into a shrivled prune. I don't relish water in a glass. I yearn for the unbridled and untamed; sparkling and pure liquid crashing over the precipice of a waterfall or lapping along the shores of the sea. What I love the most are lakes. There is a quaint charm about lakes that I can't quite put into words. I was born in the landlocked state of West Virginia, but there was always a hidden desire within me for water, even if it was just a creek or pond. When my family moved to New York I was able to go to Camp Cherokee and indulge in the heartstopping beauty of Lake Saranac. I have fond memories of boat rides and canoe trips across that lake, discovering the picturesque islands. I remember camp fires at the edge of its clean and mysterious shoreline, singing camp songs and watching the sparks of the fire leap and frolic in the chilly night air. There is something so magical about a lake. During the day they are often crowded with boats, but when the sun begins to set and shadows tangle and mesh with fading rays of sunlight, a calmness enshrowds them that gives peace to the soul. One of my favorite things to do is sit on a dock at dusk and breathe in the scent of trees and campfires, listening to the tiny waves lapping the rocks and sand along the shore.

Today I drove with my mom to take our animals to the vet. Maine is such a beautiful state. We passed at least four lakes, and even though I was unable to stop and enjoy their beauty, I still felt the tug at my heart. I think there is some kind of magnetic field in every lake that pulls me to it, whispering my name in hushed tones that only I can hear. I love the water. I love skimming across its surface on a wakeboard or watching the silvery drops fall off my paddle as it breaks the serene surface next to my canoe. I have many beautiful memories on lakes. They will always be apart of me, and whenever I see one I will always long to drop whatever I am doing and embark on another adventure in its welcoming depths. I dream of one day owning a small cabin on a lake somewhere. Maybe just a dream, but then again, a lake to me is more dream than reality, an escape into the perfection of nature. . .

lesson in needlework

I wish it were socially acceptable for a 22-year-old to cry at the doctor's.

I've always had a big fear of needles. I'm not sure when it started, but it goes back a very long time. I think it might have something to do with the nurse who told me, as an inquisitive 5-year-old, that the shot wouldn't hurt. . . and we all know the ending to that story. I felt lied to. And from then on, I hated nurses, doctors and needles. I was usually a healthy child and didn't need to visit the doctor much. In fact, after I got most of the required shots, I don't think I went much at all. However, the times I did go, my parents actually bribed me. Now, that probably sounds ridiculous to most people, who by the age of maybe 8 have grown up enough to understand proper etiquette at the doctor's office, but it's true, I was bribed. When my parents decided they wanted to spend a year in Romania as missionaries I had to get more shots. The bribe? American Doll books I'd been wanting for quite some time.

My most embarrassing doctor's moment occurred at the age of 12. My parents wanted me to get blood work done to see if I had Celiac's Disease, something my mom had been diagnosed with. Needless to say, I wasn't enthused about the visit, but somehow found myself in the office. Please let me explain exactly why I do not like needles or blood work. Even though the actual pain is minimal, there is logic to my fear and loathing. First of all it's the prep work that begins the frightening process. The snapping of that terrible little armband that proceeds to cut off your circulation and make your veins juicy for the pricking. Then there is that quick swipe of alcohol, and before you know it, they're asking you silly questions that are supposed to distract you but don't, and you feel that sickening stab and all you can think about is that there is a giant needle in your arm and it shouldn't be there.

Back to my embarrassing moment. Of course they began to prep my arm for the savage injection, and fear began to overwhelm me. Most kids would probably have whined or asked how much it would hurt, but I responded in a much more direct manner: screaming and kicking. I wish I was making this up, but I'm not. I can't remember all of the details, probably because I have tried to erase the memory, but I do remember that my parents actually had to come into the room and hold me down while they took my blood. Yes, at 12 years old. The doctor asked my parents, and I quote, to 'Please control your daughter.' I'm quite sure he had much more to say, but I've also long since forgotten.

Fast forward 10 years. I've decided to spend some time in Honduras working as a missionary at an orphanage. There are of course medical precautions to my stay, including the consumption of malaria and typhoid pills, as well as shots and blood work. Yesterday I got my blood work done. I had been dreading the appointment ever since it was made, but knew it was essential and was determined to suck it up. I sat down in the chair, my body feeling a bit weak and my mind spinning at top speed. The nurse began pulling vials off of a small shelf, not one or two, FIVE. I wasn't sure if that meant I'd have to fill all five of them with my blood. . . I was hoping not. I waited. . . the dreadful prep work began and my arm throbbed beneath the arm band. Of course the questions began too and I felt the sickening jab of the needle and tried to concentrate on the fact that it would be over soon. I didn't even answer half of the questions because I was so intent on getting out of there. And I did, of course, without much damage, except that my arm did hurt.

I'm glad I've learned to suck it up when I have to. It would have been a bit silly to cry and scream, especially at 22. I've learned, and continue to do so, that life isn't always pleasant. That doesn't mean we have to make a big deal about it though. Really it means somethings are painful and difficult, but that's just part of living and in order to live life to the fullest, we have to take the bad with the good. I don't have to enjoy getting blood taken or shots, but I do have to do it, without a fuss. It's for my benefit anyway.

-Hannah