Hannah Farver's Blog, page 7
June 29, 2012
June 27, 2012
June 18, 2012
rehashing God's faithfulness
I sat down eight different times to write this. Each time, the words haven’t come.
When you finally know exactly what you want to say, the words will come. That’s what I used to tell myself, and it’s a rule that has proven somewhat true in my little life history of writing.
But how do I ever hope to write of certain things? How do I put some specific feelings, some thoughts so sacred, into words? Like that quote from the poet Robert Creeley— “What can I say to you—words, words as if all worlds were there.”
To be frank, I’m not sure how to say it. My mind feels too often like the yarn projects in my knitting basket; dusty, half-finished, and far too tangled to approach.
There is a sweetness and delight to Jesus that I find it hard to talk about well. I want to talk about it. But how do I pull a reasonable sentence out of a memory of a childhood burst of emotion when I felt distinctly for the first time from a place deeper than my marrow that everything bad would one day come untrue? Or in highschool, thinking that life was a lot like hell, when I looked up at the stars and realized I was mistaken; when I realized I was wrong—that it was death, not life, that I was tired of. I realized that if He led the stars forth by number, then He could lead me too.
How can I connect those two memories for you, the way they are connected in my mind as monuments to truth’s slow unveiling?
How can I write rationally of the giddy feeling that hits when the thunder rumbles in, and properly explain what heavy clouds mean to a girl who has grown up counting months without rain? It may sound dumb to you, but out in the country, with hay prices and cattle and crops, you can’t help but feel drought as a pervasive unease. When I saw the dust rise on the road and the cows’ jutted bones, I sometimes found it hard to squash the suspicion that God had forgotten the world for a while.
But these past weeks I have studied firsthand how the rain comes to my house, and how the wind pushes it sideways. I’ve learned: If you stand in the doorway, your body braced beneath the frame, you might still get soaked. You might feel like the house is going to flood. You might even wonder where the land is going to put all that water. You might shudder at the extravagance of rain, remembering that He does things in the time that seems right to Him.
I’m not sure how to tell you how I came to find joy, while never really losing it. It was there all along, but now it just seems deeper. I found it by accident. I was just begging to see the identity of Jesus more clearly, to see the Cross with fresh eyes. It’s like the hope and joy and life were just thrown in as little ravishing side notes. I give you a picture of rain in a doorframe, but really, that’s how my soul feels under an onslaught of truth that God is the same as He’s always been.
The Gospel is true, true, true.
What do I know? I know that God is easily delighted. Forget what the drought months tell you—He is not cruel. He is joy itself.
And when faced with the enormity of Him, you will never be able to explain it all tidily. But the thoughts that strike us most silent are the thoughts that are most worth speaking.
All that to say, His faithfulness is stunning; and I will rehash what He has done for me until the end of time, each time using new words. None of it will ever be enough. Like Matthew Henry said, “This we must know; not know and explain (for we cannot by searching find it out to perfection), but know and believe it; acknowledging and adoring the depth, when we cannot find the bottom.”
June 8, 2012
objectively secured
“Preoccupation with our effort instead of with God’s effort for us makes us increasingly self-centered and morbidly introspective. Again, think of it this way: sanctification is the daily hard work of going back to the reality of our justification. It’s going back to the certainty of our objectively secured pardon in Christ…
In Because He Loves Me, Elyse Fitzpatrick writes about how important remembrance is in Christian growth:
‘One reason we do not grow in ordinary, grateful obedience as we should is that we’ve got amnesia; we’ve forgotten that we were cleansed from our sins. In other words, he is saying that on-going failure in our sanctification (the slow process of change into Christlikeness) is the direct result of failing to remember God’s love for us in the gospel. If we lack the comfort and assurance that His love and cleansing are meant to supply, our failures will handcuff us to yesterday’s sins, and we won’t have faith or courage to fight against them, or the love for God that’s meant to empower this war. Please don’t miss the import of Peter’s statement. If we fail to remember our justification, redemption, and reconciliation, we will struggle in our sanctification.’”
-Tullian Tchividjian, Jesus + Nothing = Everything, 95
May 22, 2012
love
He loves us.
…and sometimes the realization sneaks up; not in thunderstorms, but in thudding, slowly pelting rain. The dust grows black, pinned to the ground by dots of water.
He loves us.
…the thought unfolds, anew, like the Morning Glories I planted as a child (awed that anything seemingly fragile could be so consistent and beautiful). This love story does not grow worn with the telling.
I forget so easily. Is it because I consider myself unworthy to be loved by God? No. It’s not because I’m that humble. It’s because I am that proud; I fancy that my own frustrating self will end up being the first in history to completely exasperate God. “Maybe I’ll be the one to run Him dry of mercy.”
But that’s ridiculous. His love runs deeper than anything a mortal soul can concoct to wrench His plans. A few minutes of marveling shifts the truth into view:
He loves you so deep it’s ridiculous. He defends and claims you as His own. He saves you once and forever. He keeps you.
These are just words collected in categories, boxed in with periods…unless we trust them. They don’t resonate unless we stand under them and let their reality slowly soak in.
“He,” the Almighty God who cannot be thwarted. “He,” the Altogether Holy, who has chosen to draw near.
“Loves”—the present tense, the feeling, the decision of will; the sacrifice and the bestowment.
“Us”—the people we are now. The current, embarrassingly-human “us.” Let it all spill down…
May 16, 2012
Morning buds of May.
Morning buds of May.
March 27, 2012
"No day of my life has passed that has not proved me guilty in Your sight.
Prayers have been uttered..."
No day of my life has passed that has not proved me guilty in Your sight.
Prayers have been uttered from a prayerless heart.
Praise has been often praiseless sound…
All things in me call for my rejection,
All things in You plead my acceptance.
I appeal from the throne of perfect justice to Your throne of boundless grace.
Grant me to hear Your voice assuring me:
That by Your stripes I am healed;
That You were bruised for my iniquities;
That You have been made sin for me;
That I might be righteous in You;
That my grievous sins, my manifold sins, are all forgiven,
Buried in the ocean of Your concealing blood.
I am guilty, but pardoned,
Lost, but saved,
Wandering, but found,
Sinning, but cleansed…
Keep me always clinging to your cross.
Flood me every moment with descending grace.
- "Oh Lord," The Valley of Vision
March 21, 2012
Wrote this as a reminder to myself the other day…
“You...
Wrote this as a reminder to myself the other day…
“You take a deep breath and you walk through the doors/it’s the morning of your very first day…” Songs are written about being fifteen. No one writes on ages twenty, twenty-one or twenty-two, and I know why. This is the Great Unrest, when you are wise enough to know better but still not wise enough. Everybody says this is the time you choose who you want to be, and what you do (or fail to do) determines the trajectory of the rest of your life.
Face-down and eye-level with the ants on your dorm room carpet, you don’t try to smoosh them anymore. You see them flailing and know how it feels to carry three times your body weight.
You get used to the taste of sleep deprivation in your mouth. It tastes like desperation and dining hall coffee. You doubt you will feel nostalgia about this, ever.
Still, around lunch tables, over cups of milk and curly fries, you find kindred spirits. There are the people who dislike you for no apparent reason. There are also the ones who love you, even (and especially) when you can’t tell why.
But, it’s in an empty racquetball court after a most overwhelming day, when you’re all pink and stained and heartswollen, where God finds you. He comes in the form of Mrs. Rienhardt, who asks what’s on your mind, and reminds you of all the things you should know already, but have forgotten.
Then, stressed beyond belief over your sudden lack of motivation, beneath a sky of faded stars you consider collapsing in the soccer field for dramatic effect. You’ve heard of it done before. (Maybe God hears prayers best when spoken from that position?) Don’t do it: ticks.
You never work out as much as you should. You will never unsay all those things you said. You will never be as whole or perfect as you would like to be. You will never be able to rewrite this story. But who you are in Christ is who you are. Your identity in Christ is your real identity. It’s not the future version of you, the perfect Form of you, that He loves.
People do things you don’t understand. They fail you. You can choose to let your educated mind wallow in the safe realm of facts and abstract truths—or you too can forgive as Sonia to an unrepentant Raskolnikov. You can live the poetry of Penelope at her loom, choosing peace and daily fidelity in a world of pyre-frenzied Dido’s.
There may never be Four (discernable) Causes clarifying the particulars of your circumstances, making them manageable. But you know the Prime Mover, and He has told you His name. All-Power has grace enough for your all-frailty.
Remember, love is often the wound, but always the cure.
Remember, remember, remember. Sleeping deprived and fighting to stay on top of assignments, sometimes we forget that one day, we’ll want to remember this. Our troubles are smaller than we think, and reasons to hope run deeper than reasons to worry. We’ll see.
Wrote this as a reminder to myself the other day…
"You...
Wrote this as a reminder to myself the other day…
"You take a deep breath and you walk through the doors/it's the morning of your very first day…" Songs are written about being fifteen. No one writes on ages twenty, twenty-one or twenty-two, and I know why. This is the Great Unrest, when you are wise enough to know better but still not wise enough. Everybody says this is the time you choose who you want to be, and what you do (or fail to do) determines the trajectory of the rest of your life.
Face-down and eye-level with the ants on your dorm room carpet, you don't try to smoosh them anymore. You see them flailing and know how it feels to carry three times your body weight.
You get used to the taste of sleep deprivation in your mouth. It tastes like desperation and dining hall coffee. You doubt you will feel nostalgia about this, ever.
Still, around lunch tables, over cups of milk and curly fries, you find kindred spirits. There are the people who dislike you for no apparent reason. There are also the ones who love you, even (and especially) when you can't tell why.
But, it's in an empty racquetball court after a most overwhelming day, when you're all pink and stained and heartswollen, where God finds you. He comes in the form of Mrs. Rienhardt, who asks what's on your mind, and reminds you of all the things you should know already, but have forgotten.
Then, stressed beyond belief over your sudden lack of motivation, beneath a sky of faded stars you consider collapsing in the soccer field for dramatic effect. You've heard of it done before. (Maybe God hears prayers best when spoken from that position?) Don't do it: ticks.
You never work out as much as you should. You will never unsay all those things you said. You will never be as whole or perfect as you would like to be. You will never be able to rewrite this story. But who you are in Christ is who you are. Your identity in Christ is your real identity. It's not the future version of you, the perfect Form of you, that He loves.
People do things you don't understand. They fail you. You can choose to let your educated mind wallow in the safe realm of facts and abstract truths—or you too can forgive as Sonia to an unrepentant Raskolnikov. You can live the poetry of Penelope at her loom, choosing peace and daily fidelity in a world of pyre-frenzied Dido's.
There may never be Four (discernable) Causes clarifying the particulars of your circumstances, making them manageable. But you know the Prime Mover, and He has told you His name. All-Power has grace enough for your all-frailty.
Remember, love is often the wound, but always the cure.
Remember, remember, remember. Sleeping deprived and fighting to stay on top of assignments, sometimes we forget that one day, we'll want to remember this. Our troubles are smaller than we think, and reasons to hope run deeper than reasons to worry. We'll see.
March 8, 2012
"…still be my vision, O Ruler of all."
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