He Specializes in Hannah

Last night, I kept replaying a devotional I had given.

Did I explain it well enough?

Did I make the point clearly?

Did I ramble?

Did I get to what I was trying to say?

Did it take a turn I didn’t intend?

Did people feel I was lecturing them?

Apparently it bothered me more than I realized, because I woke up in the middle of the night still thinking about it.

And somewhere in all that overthinking, I had this very convicting, middle-of-the-night realization…

Hannah, why are you making this about you?

Oof.

The devotional wasn’t mine to begin with.

The message wasn’t mine.

And the outcome certainly wasn’t mine.

Somewhere along the way, I had started taking responsibility for something that was never mine to control. As though God’s ability to use something depended on my ability to deliver it perfectly.

So I prayed.

I asked Him to forgive me for making it about me, and I gave the whole thing back to Him.

The words I said well.

The words I stumbled over.

The things I wish I had said differently.

All of it.

Because here’s the thing:

God specializes in Hannah.

He is very familiar with my messes, my awkward words, my overthinking, my good intentions, and my imperfect attempts to serve Him.

None of that surprises Him.

And He is completely capable of taking whatever I place in His hands and using it for His glory.

Maybe someone heard exactly what they needed.

Maybe one sentence mattered.

Maybe something I thought I completely botched is the very thing God will use.

And maybe I’ll never know.

That’s okay too.

My job is obedience.

The outcome belongs to Him.

I don’t have to be impressive.

I don’t have to be perfect.

I just have to be willing to hand Him what I have and trust that He knows what to do with it.

And He does.

Last night, I kept replaying a devotional I had given.

Did I explain it well enough?

Did I make the point clearly?

Did I ramble?

Did I get to what I was trying to say?

Did it take a turn I didn’t intend?

Did people feel I was lecturing them?

Apparently it bothered me more than I realized, because I woke up in the middle of the night still thinking about it.

And somewhere in all that overthinking, I had this very convicting, middle-of-the-night realization…

Hannah, why are you making this about you?

Oof.

The devotional wasn’t mine to begin with.

The message wasn’t mine.

And the outcome certainly wasn’t mine.

Somewhere along the way, I had started taking responsibility for something that was never mine to control. As though God’s ability to use something depended on my ability to deliver it perfectly.

So I prayed.

I asked Him to forgive me for making it about me, and I gave the whole thing back to Him.

The words I said well.

The words I stumbled over.

The things I wish I had said differently.

All of it.

Because here’s the thing:

God specializes in Hannah.

He is very familiar with my messes, my awkward words, my overthinking, my good intentions, and my imperfect attempts to serve Him.

None of that surprises Him.

And He is completely capable of taking whatever I place in His hands and using it for His glory.

Maybe someone heard exactly what they needed.

Maybe one sentence mattered.

Maybe something I thought I completely botched is the very thing God will use.

And maybe I’ll never know.

That’s okay too.

My job is obedience.

The outcome belongs to Him.

I don’t have to be impressive.

I don’t have to be perfect.

I just have to be willing to hand Him what I have and trust that He knows what to do with it.

And He does.

Holding on by His Threads

A crowded street. Dust in the air. People pressing in on every side of Jesus. Noise. Movement. Urgency.

And… her.

She doesn’t come boldly. She doesn’t announce herself. She reaches in desperation, almost hidden by the crowd.

Her hand may have trembled…

but she knew.

Twelve years of illness.
Twelve years of isolation.
Twelve years of feeling untouchable.

She was at the end of her rope.

And all she needed was to get her hands on the threads of His garment.

Not His hand.
Not His shoulder.

Just the fringe.

And in that moment…

She is bent low.
He is walking forward.
The crowd is unaware.

A reach.
A touch.

And eternity shifts quietly.

There is so much power in the tension of that moment.

Her posture is desperation mixed with hope.

His is steady, unhurried, fully aware.

Lately, I understand that reaching hand a little more than I would like to.

There have been days when I have felt like I am holding on by a thread. Days when I’m tired of being strong. Tired of the next thing. Tired of carrying things I cannot fix, control, or understand.

And I have to remind myself that when I am hanging on by a thread, it matters what I am holding on to.

I can grasp tighter to my own strength. I can try harder. Think harder. Worry harder. I can keep telling myself I’ve got this.

Or I can reach for Him.

I can grab hold of the threads of His garment and put myself right where I belong, at His feet.

Not because everything suddenly changes.

Not because every prayer is immediately answered.

But because I change there.

At His feet, I can rest.

I can remember where my hope comes from.

I can find assurance when I am uncertain, strength when I am weary, and courage when I’m not sure I have enough for what comes next.

Maybe faith doesn’t always look like standing strong.

Sometimes faith looks like being bent low in the middle of the crowd, barely hanging on, but still reaching.

And maybe when you’re hanging on by a thread, the most important thing is making sure the thread you’re holding belongs to Him.

I Keep a Grilled Cheese on My Desk

 

Today, I got into my office, unpacked my computer, and started rushing around trying to settle in after a long weekend and a late start after several more biopsies this morning….that went well but left me unexpectedly emotional….

Then I saw my grilled cheese.

I stopped…took a deep breath…and felt mom’s love and prayers across the miles. And suddenly my breath caught and my eyes filled.

Years ago, when I was in college and adjusting to life after being homeschooled, there were moments when I just needed my mom. In those moments, despite the hour or the rules, there she was.

A grilled cheese sandwich.

A hug.

And a prayer.

Nothing fancy. Just exactly what I needed.

Now I live far away, and my grilled cheese isn’t nearly as tasty. 😂 It sits on my desk in the little box she mailed it in, along with her note:

“You will have to use this with my love. So proud of you. Love you bunches, Mom.”

And I do.

Because that little fake grilled cheese reminds me that there has never been a season of my life when I haven’t been covered by my mother’s prayers.

Even from hundreds of miles away.

Even when she can’t show up at my door with a hot sandwich.

I can look over at my desk and remember:

I am loved.

I am prayed for.

And somewhere far away, my mom is still, in her own way, making me a grilled cheese. ❤️