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Blog Post: “Perfect Love Casts Out Fear” (02.15.17)

I recently came to the realization that throughout most of my life, I’ve struggled with two great fears when it comes to my life’s great human romance—the fear of the utter absence of a romance, and the fear of a mediocre and deeply unsatisfying romance. These fears were born from my own fallen nature, and raised and nurtured by the romance-glorified culture that I grew up in. But it wasn’t until I started to bring them to the Lord, openly and honestly, that I truly began to understand how destructively deceptive they were.

See, when I started to think through my fear of the absence of romance in my life, I realized that it wasn’t exactly the absence of romance that scared me; rather, it was the implications of the absence of romance. Because of the deadly siren song that my own heart and society had sang to me since infancy—a romance defines you, gives you a reason to live, gives you your value and worth—I was wrestling with so many deeply-ingrained and deeply-painful concerns. Is something wrong with me? Am I not doing enough? Am I not worthy enough? Am I being punished? Have I been forgotten? If He loves me, then why has He left me naked and unblessed? Even as someone who believed in and sought after God, I was plagued and horrified by these concerns, and was heartbroken by their implications. But once I was able to verbalize them, I heard His voice so very loudly and clearly in response—You are Mine. (2 Corinthians 6:18). I love you more than you can fathom (Ephesians 3:19). I have not forgotten you; I could never forget you; I have engraved you onto the palms of My hands (Isaiah 49:15-16). You are clothed and blessed by something far greater than earthly relationships; I have given you My very presence in your heart (Ephesians 3:17).

And I realized that I wasn’t the first to be plagued by these painful lies, either—the original Hannah was mocked and scorned by Peninah for being barren, as if it were a fault she could control; the blind man that Jesus healed had spent his whole life being told by others that he was blind because of his own/his parents’ sins. But do you know what Jesus told the Pharisees when He was asked why the good thing (eyesight) had been withheld from the blind man? He said that it was so that the works of God might be displayed in him (John 9:3); so that we could see and know His great and life-changing goodness, even in the midst of our world’s overwhelming sin and grief.

And in sifting through the muck of all of those lies, I found the biggest one of all—that He does not love me, and is not for me, and does not want the best for me. And you know what? That is the exact same lie that the serpent convinced Eve to commit the original sin with; the same chilling whisper that told her that God was withholding the very best from her and Adam because He could not love them as much as they could love themselves. And they believed it, and acted on it, and consequently brought death and sorrow to the entire human race.

But His love was greater than the destruction of that lie, and is still greater than the ripple effects that may be hurting your heart today. So, if this is something that you are struggling with, know this—this is not about the lack of your epic human romance in your life. This is not about you and the person that is not here yet, or you and the thing that you wish you had. This is about you and God; about your fallen heart not being able to comprehend why God is not romancing you in the way that you want to be. If you feel naked and forsaken in your lack of a romantic relationship because you crave to be romanced, it’s because you are, in fact, inherently designed to be romanced—but you’re either looking to the wrong source if it’s not Him, or the wrong manifestation of it if it is. If your prayers are only centered on, “God, show me how much You love me by giving me this,” then they need to change to, “God, show me how much You already love me.” Because if you look at the story of Ruth, God was the One who was fiercely loving and wholly protecting her the entire time, and Boaz was just one of the ways that He manifested that love and protection for her.

My other fear of a mediocre, deeply-unsatisfying romance was also conquered when He reminded me that He is not a mediocre or deeply-unsatisfying Lover. His love is steadfast (Psalm 86:15), tender (Psalm 147:3) passionate (Romans 5:8), all-consuming (1 John 3:16), and fierce (Zephaniah 3:17)—and if my husband is to be a reflection of my God, then he will be those things as well. I don’t have to worry about getting less-than-best, because my God is not the god of half-hearted giving—He is the Giver of every good and perfect gift from above (James 1:17).

So, if you are also struggling with either (or both) of these fears today, it is my earnest prayer that He would bring you through them onto the solid, secure, and sacred ground of His truth; that these words would help with that. That you would know His truth, and that it would set your heart free to live in delight and love as He has loved you. And that you would always remember that, “perfect love casts out fear (1 John 4:18).”

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Blog Post: “Why I’m More Excited for New Year’s Than Christmas” (12.26.16)

This year, I was hit hard by the obvious yet breathtaking realization that Christmas is the celebration of a thousand years of hopes realized; the fulfillment of promises proclaimed through hundreds of prophetic voices and wholeheartedly believed by generation upon generation. That in celebrating His first arrival, we celebrate the incredible proof of His existence, sovereignty, and love for us. We celebrate that we have a God who is real, faithful, and true to His promises. And we celebrate the logical and faithful conclusion that if He fulfilled the promise of His first coming, He will most certainly do so with His second.

And yet, this Christmas was painful and bittersweet for me. And all I could think about for most of the season was how excited I am for Him to come back, because His return means no more pain for me. And while I know that we are supposed to look forward to His return, I also know that He deserves to be more than just my escape plan from sorrow; that the absence of pain in His presence is just a lovely by-product, not the thing to be cherished itself. And I know that I don’t have to wait for His return to be in His presence, because Immanuel means, “God with us” and Immanuel is in my heart.

So this year, I’m looking forward to the new year with far more hope and joy than I felt during Christmastime, because spring is coming. And spring is a Lion singing the land to life; it’s the sun warming the trees and snow watering a thirsty, sleepy earth; it’s my heart surging to life at His calling of my name. And my breath is taken once again when I am hit with the realization that it was always winter, and never Christmas, until He was born—and because we had Christmas, we can now have spring.

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Spoken Word Poem: “Twenty”

I usually forget that I’m only twenty-years-old— that the dirt caked on my skin is only two decades deep, that I can only count twenty rings on the tree trunk of my heart.

It feels like much more than that; like my eyes have held more than twenty years’ worth of tears, so the mathematical part of my brain factors the equation, “x (current age) plus y (amount of sorrow) = actual age lived,” and it all makes perfect sense until I remember that physical age?

is not math; it’s science, and the microhistory of how generations of cells dance and multiply and divide and die deep in the rivers of our veins.

But I don’t think that my lungs are twenty-years-old anymore;

I think that they became forty-five like yours the moment that they stopped working inside of your chest.

And that leaves me, the twenty-year-old with dancing cells and storm-weathered eyes, with forty-five-year-old lungs that claim to be quite capable of singing more complex melodies; the elaborate choral arrangements of career and parenting and mortgages and community all at the exact same time.

And I try, but my twenty-years-young voice just can’t keep up; and I am so breathless by the end that I don’t even have a breath left to cry.

But He hears me anyway, and holds me tightly in His carpenter’s arms and nail-scarred hands— and in the same voice that called time into existence, He tells me to just sing the sweet, simple notes of “Amazing Grace.”

Because that really is the only one that matters to the twenty-year-old heart that was made for eternity.

So yes, I may be a mismatched quilt of weathered eyes and hearty cells and weary lungs and an eternal heart—

but twenty years ago, I was fearfully and wonderfully made; and just as He knitted me together then, I know that He is sewing the pieces together now with threads of gold.

And my twenty-years-young hands remind me that I was made to build; and that I not only can, but I will, because there are things to do and a person to become and a Kingdom to grow, and there is still so much to see.

— Hannah C. Johnson, written on 10.04.16, revised on 12.12.16

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Spoken Word Poem: “Claimed”

I gave my uncle a shirt, silky and sunset-orange.

And he hugged me and thanked me and asked me, “Why?”

And if the truth hadn’t been hidden in my throat, held prisoner behind walls of wry humor and gruff affection, I would have said:

“Because you claimed me.”

Because the day that I had my first car accident, and my entire body trembled and I couldn’t take a deep-enough breath in my bruised chest and my throat felt as if it were filled with the fluid leaking from my crumpled hood—

and my mom wasn’t answering the phone, and I was terrified, because they don’t teach important things in school like, “What to Do in a Car Accident 101”—

you came to the scene, took it all in, and told the police, “She’s my niece.”

You saw the terrible mistake that I had made— looked right at the shattered glass and shattered grill and shattered girl in front of you— and still chose to say, “She’s my family.” “She’s with me.” “She’s mine.”

— Hannah C. Johnson, 03.30.16 (revised 09.20.16) For Uncle Bob

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Blog Post: “Freedom” (07.04.16)

Recently, the Lord has been reminding me in so many different ways that He loves me, and that I am free because of His love. And once I started to really savor that truth and test out its meaning in my life, I began to marvel at the heart-stopping beauty of my realizations:

I am free to forgive others and be kind to them always, even when they make selfish choices that hurt me—because their love (or lack of) doesn’t define who I am.

I am free to hold my relationships, blessings, and dreams in open palms and an open heart—because my soul will not be broken or restored with their loss or gain.

I am free to not be overwhelmed by grief from death or pain, to choose happiness and joy every single day—because all of the joy that I need can be found solely in the fact that He loves me, not my present possessions or circumstances.

I am free to be kind, sincere, and tender towards the man that I quietly hope will become more, without tethering my ability to be those things to his response—because while I hope for him, my hope is not in him.

I am free because His kindness makes me whole; not anyone else’s.

I am free because His love gives me strength; not anyone else’s.

I am free because He split the sea so I could walk right through it; He drowned my fears in perfect love. Not anyone else.

I am free because He is the only essential, and everything else is a bonus. And while that is so hard to believe and even harder to live out, it is the truth and it sets us—it sets me—free.

And today, I also celebrate the literal freedom that I have to openly stand and sing His praises; to clearly proclaim the incredible freedom that He has brought to my heart and life.

So Happy Independence Day, and may your heart also be filled with great joy at the beautiful reality of your freedom in His love!

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Blog Post: “You Are Not The Answer” (06.07.16)

“Some men will want to hold you like The Answer. You are not the answer.” —Sarah Kay, “The Type”

But really, can we talk about how culture often teaches us women that angst is attractive? That it’s romantic for sweet girls to long for tormented, emotionally unhealthy men? That if you just weather it through enough of his bad behavior, eventually he will change for the better and that you will be the special person who caused it?

Um, NO. I’m calling complete bull. And while I wholeheartedly believe in positively impacting the lives of those around you—your partner included—I’ve also come to realize just how truly dangerous and toxic this romanticism is. Because if he’s not genuinely kind, respectful, and emotionally stable from the first date, then he is not a worthy candidate to pursue your heart.

Women, listen up: it is not your job to make a man into a worthy man. It is not your job to teach him how to be a decent person. It is not your job to read between the lines of him pushing you away. It is not your job to justify or excuse any unkind thing that he says or does. It is not your job to be his punching bag or garbage disposal as he works through his emotional baggage. It is not your job to give him an infinite number of chances to treat you correctly. It is not your job to wait around for him to become the person you believe he can be. If he is not those basic, incredibly important things: kind, respectful, and emotionally stable—then it is his job and his responsibility alone to become those things. The way that he chooses to conduct himself is all on him, not you.

Now, all that being said: of course there is nothing wrong with inspiring a man. With encouraging a man. With loving, nurturing, and supporting a man. But 1) you can do all of that as a man’s friend; meaning, you don’t have to be romantically involved with a man to help him; and 2) if it is unhealthy for you to help a man in those ways, then don’t. And don’t feel bad that you didn’t, because it was never your job to begin with. There is a huge difference between being patient, forgiving, and faithful to a person and being habitually passive in being blatantly mistreated. A good relationship will never demand that you sacrifice your morals, integrity, health, or safety.

“You are not the problem. You are not the poem or the punchline or the riddle or the joke.”

You are just you. And you are imperfect, and you are infinitely invaluable. So please, please, please armor yourself with these truths, and don’t let toxic relationships and those who enable/encourage them trick you into believing any differently.

P.S. This post was inspired by the powerful words of incredible slam poet Sarah Kay. “The Type” is one poem of many in her amazing collection No Matter the Wreckage. I can’t recommend it highly enough!

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Book Review: A Court of Mist and Fury

Last year, I fell madly in love with A Court of Thorns and Roses (hereafter ACOTAR) as I devoured it in the sweltering heat of a summer trip to Korea. Filled with romance, adventure, and strong characterization, it was a Beauty and the Beast-flavored story for the first half, which was my favorite fairy tale growing up—but then it developed into an “Epic Quest for Love” story for the second half, which made it even better suited for my present reading tastes. And as both a feminist and a massive fan of character depth & development, I was thrilled with how Feyre (our protagonist) got to grow, choose, and actively fight for Tamlin (her love interest)—I felt that in that alone, Sarah J. Maas was fighting the good fight of helping people to realize that young women are strong, smart, and capable human beings worthy of respect and compassion.

All that being said, I loved ACOTAR, and part of me didn’t even really want to read A Court of Mist and Fury (hereafter ACOMAF), because ACOTAR ended with some closure and because I hate love triangles, which is what I was really afraid that this was headed towards (I was so, so wary of Rhysand).  

But I should have known better; should have had more faith in Sarah. Because holy crap. She freaking blew ACOTAR out of the water with this book, in literally every single way. Because on top of the spectacular character writing & development, plot progression, and world-building, Sarah also dealt with two incredibly important issues head-on: psychological trauma, and emotional abuse.

I’ve read other books that have realistically dealt with the struggles of overcoming psychological trauma. But ACOMAF was the first (and only) book that I have ever read that not only identified emotional abuse for what it was and called it out as not okay, but also had it come from an unexpected source and progressively get worse.

And that’s one of the ways that Sarah impressed me most with this book, because that’s real life. In reality, the bad guys don’t always look like the bad guys—and sometimes, good guys become bad guys by the choices that they make. But you have to be educated on and know the warning signs, because you have to identify and call someone out on their crap if they are hurting you. Even if that means dealing with the pain of accepting that the person you love is hurting you.

In ACOMAF, Sarah clearly defines what is sexy and what is not. Protectiveness is sexy; suffocation is not. Respect is sexy; superiority is not. Nurturing is sexy; coddling is not. Growth is sexy; repression is not. Having boundaries is sexy; ignoring them is not.

Speaking of sexy, I have so many good things to say about Rhysand: but my very favorite thing about him is how Sarah used him to show that ultimately, what makes a guy good is not his love for you: it is his respect for you, his kindness towards you, and his honoring of you. Without these things, love is toxic, and ultimately isn’t real love.

So. All I can say is: read ACOTAR, if you haven’t yet. And enjoy it while you can, because once you tackle ACOMAF, you will never be able to go back. But that’s okay, because ACOMAF is so, so worth it. More than worth it. And then go read everything else Sarah J. Maas has written, because she has officially established herself as the Queen of Smashingly Well-Written High Fantasy!

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Spoken Word Poem: “To the pretentious Christian hipsters of America”

To the pretentious Christian hipsters of America:

STOP with your environmentalist rants, your made-in-Cambodia beanies, your passion for African children, your outrage against the Church’s flaws, and your dedication to non-rainforest-fair-trade-elephant-poop coffee. DO NOT TALK TO ME ABOUT ANY OF THOSE THINGS UNTIL YOU ACTUALLY

LOOK at the faces of the people around you. Everyone smiles, but you need to squint to see the tightness around their mouths; for the way that their eyes don’t glow with real sunlight. And then you must

REACH not for those in the mountains of Tibet, but for those who are choking on the smog of their gritty pain during your banjo worship sessions. They sit next to you on your artisan-crafted couch, and they are lost in a dying rainforest of doubt and hopelessness.

GO dive into the waters of the mainstream, because it is in those murky depths that you will find the bone-weary drowners who need you the most.

LOVE those closest to you first, because Jesus didn’t feed the five thousand until He had tenderly nourished the hearts of His own family and disciples.

If THESE things are not FIRST, then you are not the vintage first-edition copy of David Platt that you haughtily believe you are.

Worse, you are not the sepia-toned, artfully-marred, Polaroid picture of Christ that you think you are.

You are a made-in-China replica of the priest and Levite on the road, who were both so focused on their “grand” destinations that they ignored the bleeding Jew at their feet.

Be the Samaritan. Be kind to those around you; in that, you will be a true hipster. Because real love, and real grace, are not mainstream.

They’re just amazing.

— Hannah C. Johnson, 03.31.15

Written in truth and love for whomever it is applicable to; myself included.

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Spoken Word Poem: “Papayas”

At the beginning of time, we were perfect, golden, ripe papayas, but then we chose to split ourselves apart and scrape out the seeds that gave us life; and we chose to be devoured by the hungry longings of our own hearts.

And to this day, we feel the gaping hole inside of us; sometimes, it feels so wide that we can hear the wind whistle through it, and we shiver with the ache that fills our guts.

But when we take His hand, and we let Him join our split shells, He pours shiny black pearls into our hearts until, we can barely feel that hole any more.

— Hannah C. Johnson, 03.15.15

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Spoken Word Poem: “Rest”

“Come to me, all you who are weary and heavy-burdened, and I will give you rest.”

We hear the words, and yet we go and go and go and go until --

BAM!

We trip on something as small as a shoelace -- or as big as a lost loved one -- and slam face-first into the sidewalk.

And we cry into the concrete, then scream into the sky, “It hurts! IT HURTS!”

And His heart breaks and He reaches down to grab us, and sometimes we take His hand, but too many times, we slap it away, because our eyes are so filled with salty bitterness and we refuse to blink them away so that we can see the help that reaches towards us.

We spit on the heart that wants to heal ours because we are furious that we were even allowed to feel pain in the first place.

But pain is the body’s way of telling you that something is not right, and we know that deep down, something is not right.

We know that we are pens too big for our scribbles, we know that we are scribbles too big for our words, we know that we are words too big for our voices, we know that we are voices too big for our songs.

And we know that our pain is too big for our hands to catch and hold; our palms are too soft, to handle the burns, that sear into scars.

But,

Let ink flow out of you anyway, like tears. Like laughter. Like every good thing you’ve ever wanted to say, and didn’t.

When you run out of paper, write on your hands and knees and all over the insides of your eyelids.

Choose your words the way that you choose your Sunday clothes and your favorite crayons; choose them carefully, choose your best, and choose the most beautiful for yourself and for others to hear.

Sing. Even if you’re terrible. Even if you’re wonderful. Open your throat and let biology combine with math and emotions and breathe songs that rise and fall with the movement of your lungs.

And let His scarred hands catch, the pain for you; because He already did once and for all.

So get up off of the sidewalk, brush your palms and tend to your scrapes, swipe at your tears and take a cool shower, and then go to Him, and rest.

— Hannah C. Johnson, 01.15.15

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Spoken Word Poem:��“Dear Dad: A Year”

Dear Dad:

If I were being sentimental, I would have called you “Daddy” in the opening line; and while I do cry to God in my despair that I “Want my daddy!” like I’m four-years-old, that wasn’t us after I turned ten.

No, you and I were more British than anything else; we prided ourselves on being the logical ones who loved each other, whose veins were filled with more stout grey tea than fiery wine.

Of course I would hug you, and kiss the golden scruff on your cheek; of course you would tell me you loved me, even huffily over the phone when I was being a pill.

But we never really explored what it meant to burn and mend bridges; We had a peaceful co-existence that was built on sharp wit and great reasoning.

So this past year, I’ve grieved you by re-reading Tolkien and listening to Bon Jovi; by lying on the floor and looking at maps that you would have loved.

But I’ve been learning too, Dad.

I’ve learned that pain? Is inevitable, and that it’s okay to not be okay.

I’ve learned that “Keep Calm and Carry On,” as our people say, doesn’t mean that you should “Turn Off and Shut Down.” No,

I’ve learned that to “turn off the pain,” to anesthetize against the ache of the gaping hole that you presence left, is to also not remember the callouses on your knuckles, or the golden scruff on your cheeks.

I’ve learned that it doesn’t take a year to heal; it takes the eternity of love and compassion that He has for me, poured into my brokenness and slowly formed into a clearer reflection of His heart, that keeps me from drowning in grief.

I’ve learned that even through your death, I can glimpse His enduring promise; and that I have nothing but incredible joy to taste in His return, and yours.

And I’ve learned that it’s okay to trade your ashes for the beauty of the life that He’s given me.

So I just wanted to let you know that I am okay, and that I am only going to get better.

You were always one step ahead of us, and I know that while you would have been the leader who stayed, it only seems fitting that you would have been the first to lead home.

I love you, Dad. I’ll see you soon.

— Hannah C. Johnson, 10.11.14

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Spoken Word Poem: “To My Daughter”

Your dad used to wrap his sandpaper hands around your butterfly palms, with a kiss of safety, in the hope of protection, and ask Me to take care of you for all the days of your life.

But oh, sweetheart; I already had.

I chose you, I choose you; always, and you may feel so unprotected in a murky sea of broken hopes and quiet defeat, grinning devils and empty chests, unseen hurt and lurking sharks named “Give Up” and “You’re Dinner”

But you tell them

That I AM YOUR GOD and YOU ARE MY CHILD and that I have poured a gallon of OxiClean onto the toilet filth sin had left all over you, and that the stench of death that made you easy prey is now GONE.

There is no barcode etched into your soul any longer, no Mark that darkness can sense and hunt;

You are MY CHILD MY BABY MY LOVE and I AM the Lion whose roar of holiness and triumph echoes through the Halls of Eternity.

I AM the God of Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, and you; You are the daughter of the Consolation of Israel. and though I’ll press burning coals to the open wounds of your heart, they will seal and protect you from infections of doubt and unease.

The selfishness, the anger, the pain of those who are Not Mine; and even those who are; Will not be piled into your precious butterfly palms because My fingers are wide enough to catch it all and throw it as far as the east is from the west.

Your dad wrapped his sandpaper hands around them with a kiss of safety, in the hope of protection,

and oh, sweetheart;

I Already Had.

— Hannah C. Johnson, 09.22.13

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Spoken Word Poem: “Dear Dad”

Faith as small as a mustard seed; I believed that you would be healed. And at first I cried because you sailed off into the dawn, and my faith must’ve been just smaller than that seed, because I couldn’t keep you from going.

But then I realized, it wasn’t my faith that was too small; It was the scope of my thinking, and the blurry peephole at the door of my heart. Because He had healed you, but with my tear-framed and expired prescription glasses, I couldn’t see past Here, and the fact that you weren’t.

I couldn’t look up from the place in the sand where my feet sank and the water touched and I couldn’t go any farther, and I could see the ship you’d gone in, but I was too wrapped up in a tight blue sweater of ache to realize Who had tenderly welcomed you aboard and how the ship was made of see-through gold.

Here, all I know is my gray-green grass, and my gray-blue sky, and my dying gold sun, and I don’t know what it’s like Over There, but I know that things must be full and perfect, but on this side of heaven I still wish that I could see your gray-green eyes smiling through crinkled eyelids.

The morning you left, I held my shaking hands and told them to just get through the day, because if I could make it through that hollow Tuesday, then I could make it through Wednesday, and Thursday, and Friday, and every day after that, until your hand wouldn’t be cold anymore when I touched it.

I wanted to run, as hard and fast away from that day as I could, not because I wanted to run from you, but because I wanted to run towards you, and every day I live without you, I come one day closer to living again with you.

But I’ve learned that life isn’t a hundred-meter dash, a hard and fast endurance until an explosive end. Life is a walk in a yellow wood, with glimpses of the sea through the branches, of a harbor housing a ship of see-through gold. Leaves change and trees grow and our footsteps lift and fall, until suddenly or unsuddenly, we stand on the shore of the Sea of Eternity.

So even though the stained glass window in our sanctuary is gone; and even though the rain will come through that hole, we forget that Rain? Is meant to cleanse. And when the sun shines through, it’ll shine all the warmer, clearer; unfiltered Love bathing us in light.

Light, that will grow us and guide us into the Sea of Eternity, and the shore of the Kingdom of Holiness.

And that’s where you are, and that’s where you’ll be forever, in a haven of Light.

We’re on our way, Dad. And we’ll see you soon.

— Hannah C. Johnson, 08.25.13 In loving memory.