He's faithful to redeem.

 Almighty Weaver
©7-4-2025 hannah mclean

Almighty Weaver
i rest in Your hands
You who made mountains
You who formed man
Almighty Weaver
the Maker of parts
only Your love can 
join body and heart

Your blood binds what’s broken
and makes new what’s old
Your love falls on ashes
and brings forth the gold
Your truth walks through prisons
and unlocks the doors
Your hands lift the least of these
making them more

Almighty Weaver
redemption’s Your way
You bring dead to life 
and You turn night to day
You see beyond moment
call forth what will be
in the land of the living
Your goodness i’ll see

on the path of healing

unwoven
©6-26-2025 hannah mclean

my body housed
its broken heart

burdened by the weight of loss
it could not bear up
cracking beneath it

and when hands could only hold
one thing together
it chose the soul
while the body fell aside
in a heap of rubble

i’ve walked hand in hand
with my broken heart
i’ve watched as Holy Hands
gathered every piece
that fell along the road of suffering
and mended me back together
and it is well
with my soul

but i have never walked hand in hand
with my broken body

no
 

my fists have pounded upon its bruises
my feet have kicked its aching back
my mouth has torn it apart
as it lay in the dust
shame and blame and disdain
covering it in heaps and mounds
undignified and stripped of worth
while all it ever longed for
was compassion

years have passed
i’ve looked at it again and again
from a safe distance
i’ve learned to draw near even though it hurts
i’ve renounced my curses and
chosen to bless
i’ve shoveled off years of shame
and unburdened it of decades of blame
and fought disdain
and fought disdain again
i’ve told it the truth
fearfully and wonderfully made
by design not function
i’ve even mustered compassion
from time to time

but i remain
a weaving too long upended
the strands still too mixed up within the debris
of too many storms
over too many years
to find their way back together

because my body housed
its broken heart

and only one has been made well

The feet of Jesus

Revelation 1:12–16 “Then I turned to see the voice that was speaking to me, and on turning I saw seven golden lampstands, and in the midst of the lampstands one like a son of man, clothed with a long robe and with a golden sash around His chest. The hairs of His head were white, like white wool, like snow. His eyes were like a flame of fire, His feet were like burnished bronze, refined in a furnace, and His voice was like the roar of many waters. In His right hand He held seven stars, from His mouth came a sharp two-edged sword, and His face was like the sun shining in full strength.”

I read this passage today, and looked down at my paper to answer the correlating questions. “What stands out to you in John’s description of what He saw and heard?” I could think of only one thing. It wasn’t the lampstands or the golden stars that danced across His palm, nor was it the two-edged sword or the flaming eyes. It was His feet. “Burnished bronze, refined in a furnace.” Something that is burnished has been polished until it shines, or in this case, refined by fire until it carried a sheen found through no other means. His feet, standing amid the splendor and majesty…His feet that knew not just the courts of heavens but the fires of earth.

To be honest, when I think of Jesus’ feet I don’t usually think of burnished bronze. I think of dirt and blood and sandal straps too holy to be unloosed by the best of human hands. I think of roads filled with travelers, journeys up mountainsides and maybe even the floors of fishing boats.

My mind travels through stories recorded for us in scripture of those holy, yet human feet; sick were laid at them, former-lepers fell in gratitude at them, redeemed women washed the dirt from them with their tears. People followed where their walked, sat at them to learn and even joined them atop the waters of the Sea of Galilee. They stood in a manger, in the homes of sinners, in His Father’s house and in the courts of earthly governments. They walked into gardens, up mountains, from city to city, even to the tomb of their friend. These feet that once were cradled by a mother, that were once pierced through by a soldier, that knew the feel of both womb and tomb; these feet that traveled the decent of heaven to earth and back again. These were the feet that stood out to me in John’s vision.

I know those feet. I’ve laid myself before them a thousand time, resting my head upon them in prayer. I’ve wrapped myself around them, rained my tears upon them, broken open my alabaster box at them to pour out my worship. I’ve followed them through the veil and to the throne, walked beside them into the broken caverns within me and known the healing that comes as they’ve led me out. They’ve joined me in my floods and in my fires, stood beside me in the valleys and in the heights, waited with me when I had no strength to move.

I found His feet before I found His face; for me it was the entrance point to relationship when I did not yet know how to receive love. These holy feet that humbled themselves to meet me in the dirt, pierced through so that my gaze could learn to look up in wonder at the One who drew near.

I know those feet. And when I look upon John’s vision, I can’t help but think that even if the rest of heaven is unimaginable in beauty and purity, shocking in width and wonder to we who wait on this side of eternity, the feet of our Lord will be familiar to us.

For those feet stood with us in the furnace. Those heavenly feet of burnished bronze.

Fault and chastisement

I have spent my entire adult life battling health issues. Literally less than 2 months after my 18th birthday I got a diagnosis that seemed to determine the course of everything that followed; and when a doctor associated it with Celiac’s Disease (an autoimmune disorder that I believe was triggered in me after the death of my little brother when I was very young), I took the blame for the catastrophe that was my body. At every bump and pit along my health journey, I have looked backwards continually at my 18-year-old self and said, “It's your own fault.”

When my body fell apart at the failure of my thyroid, it was my own fault. When I lost my ability to speak after complications with surgery, it was my own fault. When I had to work extra hard for the smallest step forward or when my body fell 10 steps back, it was my own fault. When my body couldn't recover after giving birth...when I miscarried my babies...couldn't regulate my blood pressure...my fault, my fault, my fault. For years and years, I have owned my body's weakness and failures as the consequence of my ignorant teenage choices to not stay off gluten. "It's your own fault," my internal drill sergeant reminds me, "suck it up and accept your consequences. You gave up your chance at health when you were young, so stop complaining. You didn't respect it while you had it, you don't deserve it back. Stand up and keep moving forward."

In some weird way, this acceptance of blame has sort of wrangled my emotions as I have rollercoastered through the ups and downs, reminding me to keep standing instead of rolling over and giving up. It has forced me to find my contentment outside of my circumstances.

And that’s not all bad.

But it’s also not good. Yesterday my drill sergeant’s voice started to bother me, some part of me that the last 24 years hasn't hardened, some part that hasn’t been snuffed out by my body's failures suddenly stood up and pushed back.

“I don’t think that's true,” this unusual spark of resistance called out over the familiar wrestle to quench my sadness. "I don't think it’s my fault."

I tried. I tried to get better. I did everything I knew how to for years and years. I have worked hard for my wellbeing (physically, mentally, spiritually, and relationally), and while I have laid hold of much holistic healing, my physical body still languishes in the dirt. I’ve learned how to rewire my brain toward it over the years; I’ve found moments I have actively felt compassion for it, I’ve intentionally reconnected to it (overriding a trauma response of disassociating) in spite of the emotional turmoil I endure by allowing myself to remain in it, I’ve actively painted it with dignity and value and reminded myself of its goodness by design. And every time I think I’ve got to be done, that the bottom of this gangrenous wound has to be uncovered, I keep finding more.

So today I have been processing my internal resistance. I’ve considered the little voice that stood in the face of the commander and said, “It’s not my fault.”

What is the truth?

The truth is that I have never looked at another sick or suffering person and thought, “It’s your own fault. Suck it up.” I’ve never bypassed compassion and commanded someone to get in line under their responsibility for their own weakness. Why would I judge myself with such harshness when I have never thought so harshly about another?

The truth is that there is much in my life that has affected my body that I have not chosen.

The truth is that association and causation are not the same thing. I don’t know why my thyroid failed me when I was 18-years-old.

The truth is that even if I had messed up everything in my life in regards to my health, I still deserve the basic human compassion that shelters the path of suffering.

“What is the truth?” I asked the Lord.

And He said to me, “Surely He has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows; yet we esteemed Him stricken, smitten by God, and afflicted. But He was pierced for our transgressions; He was crushed for our iniquities; upon Him was the chastisement that brought us peace, and with His wounds we are healed.” [Isaiah 53:4–5]

The word “chastisement” set itself on me, its definition laying out the reality of this lie’s root. To chastise means to censure severely, inflicting punishment on (as by whipping). A censure is a judgment involving condemnation. For 24 years I have carried the condemnation of my broken body; the sentence of a life in the dust has whipped me into line every time I have bucked beneath it. It has pressed upon my shoulders with such weight that I’ve given it permission to remain because I have owned it as a righteous judgment against me.

But He said to me, “There is therefore now no condemnation for those who are in Christ Jesus.” [Romans 8:1]

Break every chain, Lord. No more lies.

He has borne my grief and sorrow, He has been pierced and crushed and chastised and wounded for my peace and for my healing.

“It’s not my fault,” I said over and over again today. Practicing the truth so that the next time the lie falls from my mouth I can crush it before it lands. May the whip that has fallen so many times be absorbed by the One who lent me His body so that I can walk free.

The eager rose bush

I went out to look in my flower bed this afternoon, and found myself standing in front of my rose bush. I bought it this Spring at ALDI, a bare twig maybe 10” tall for $7 figuring that even if it flopped, it was worth the $7 risk because…what if it didn’t? And there in my flower bed stood the former twig. While it still had only 2 branches, it was now 3 1/2’ tall, boasting three 4” roses and 2 more in lesser states of bloom. It stretched itself toward the sky, straight upright, confident that it was capable of great beauty, and it opened up its blossoms into sweet aromatic pedals of many shades of pink, unaware that a single branch was not suppose to stand so tall nor hold so many roses.

Its two overflowing branches made me laugh as I thought, “I want the confidence of this rose bush.”

This rose bush apparently had not been informed that it had fallen into my uninformed hands; it was unhindered by its time of pruning, its season of waiting to find its garden, its time of not yet being planted in the right soil. In spite of its dormancy and its apparent dying, it was eager to flourish without hinderance the moment it touched the earth.

It seemed to call out to me, “Why wouldn’t I go all out? This is what I was made for!”

It didn’t know I would stand and admire its blooms, but it knew its blooms would hold all the beauty embedded in them by its Maker. It seemed to have the glorious understanding that to bud and to blossom and to burst into full bloom in the light of the sun was what it was made for….and so it threw its branches out into the open air and simply lived to the fullness of its potential for its age and stage of growth.

I want to be like the rose bush.

I was talking to the Lord this morning about my desire to learn how to dream by faith. I've learned in my 43 years that while I am a dreamer by nature—one who dreams big for the people in my life—I am crippled in my ability to dream for myself. Maybe it’s the remnants of disappointments of the past, or the lingering effects of being pressed down…maybe it’s the leftover shades of fear not yet washed from my nature… wherever it comes from, I find myself wishing to confront my limp.

While it is true that I sometimes do big (for me), uncomfortable things; I mostly just do them in obedience, expectation doesn’t usually have a seat at the table. I invite people to a Bible study without the expectation that anyone would come. I publish a book without the expectation that anyone would buy it. I write a blog without the expectation that anyone would read it. I share a testimony without the expectation that anyone would believe it. I sing a song without the expectation anyone (but my dad) would want to listen to my voice. And maybe it's not so bad a thing to be surprised from time to time if someone shows up or stops to listen or finds themself blessed, but I do think it is a strange position to be in to repeatedly reach out my hand assuming I will probably find only empty air and to have genuine peace at having reached out anyway.

I look around me and watch people in my life planning and dreaming with joyful expectancy; they start businesses, prayer movements and ministries that utilize their gifting and turn the fire that burns in their heart into a productive blaze. They sit behind tables filled with their creative endeavors and believe that someone would want one for their own. They walk into rooms and open their mouths with the expectation that someone will consider what comes out of them and choose to take part. And I watch them…marveling at what, to me, seems like magnificent boldness. Dreams and expectancy of possibility combining to gift the human soul.

Are you one of those people? A person who takes leaps of faith and builds with wild expectation? How did you become like the rose bush? Teach me your ways.

Missing you on the eve of Spring

For the Return of my Friend
©4/26/24 Hannah McLean

My face turns toward the Spring breeze
lungs breathe deep
and I am filled.
The sights and sounds and smells that surround me
pour out their promises in the way only nature may.
And in this air, I cannot help but hope.

Time is ever changing things,
this I know,
the tiny nose that once wrinkled up a baby face
now sets among features matured into a different beauty.

Soft found hard.
The trials of life have a way of shaping things,
like the persistent rushing river through the grand canyon
forging in its passing a thing of extravagant wonder.

And yet,
many water cannot change all things
for my love persists;
unable to be washed away by current
unwilling to be pulled away by wind and gale
ever beating as the heartbeat at the core of life itself.

Hope rides upon the fresh air
as things once dead beneath the cold of winter
emerge in victorious shades of living color.
If ever it was time, why not now?

I open up my doors
I throw wide my windows
and cast my voice and heart into the earthen air.
My longing for you to come stretches across the space
between us;
may it find its way to you
nudging your heart to turn my way
spreading out a bridge worth walking.

I will be here,
this you must know,
listening for the sound of your footsteps
across the freshly plowed earth.

The Fear of the Lord

Psalm 111:10 "The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom; all those who practice it have a good understanding. His praise endures forever! 

I taught in children’s church this Sunday, and my meditation and study in preparation for this lesson was SO FRUITFUL that I am going to share it with you.

Every time I approach the passage that I am going to teach, I ask the Lord, “What do You want me to tell the kids?” There are so many lessons to be gleaned from every passage that I need to allow Him to direct me. This past week, I was preparing to teach Joshua 2 where Rahab hides the spies from Israel and then ties a scarlet cord in her window so she will be spared when Jericho falls by the Lord’s hand. I read and reread the passage, waiting for most of the week until finally He said, “Teach them about the fear of the Lord.”

I don’t know if you’ve ever read Joshua 2 specifically looking for what it teaches about the fear of the Lord (I sure hadn't)…but whoa. What a wonderful story to help bring to the surface what the fear of the Lord is and what it looks like lived out. So I am going to share the gist of my lesson for children’s church if you are interested in learning more about the fear of the Lord as it was displayed through the life of Rahab. Go read Joshua 2 before you keep reading (it’s only 24 verses, so it won’t take long).

Scripture says multiple times that “the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom…” The word nerd in me requires us to define three of the words in that sentence:

YIR’â: Fear of God, reverence (to regard AND treat with deep respect)

BEGINNING: The point in time or space when something starts

WISDOM: Knowledge and understanding that give you the ability to make good judgements

Wisdom isn’t just knowing things, it is being able to take what you know and use that knowledge to live your life the right way. So consider that: Without the fear of the Lord, we have missed the BEGINNING of how to use what we know to live our life in the goodness that God intends.

THE FEAR OF THE LORD FOLLOWS THE ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF WHO GOD IS. In Rahab’s statement to the men in verses 8–12, she uses the name Jehovah four times; Jehovah is the formal name of the one true God. I was looking back through scripture, and while I certainly didn’t look on every page, I couldn’t find places where gentiles who weren’t believers used the name Jehovah. Rahab was acknowledging that the God of Israel was the true God. The others in her city were offered the same opportunity to fear God as Rahab was; she describes how they had watched Israel for 40 years—they saw God bring them out of Egypt, through the red sea, conquer kings—and the others in her city were terrified of Israel…but they did not acknowledge or revere Israel's God. But Rahab did, and she called Him by His name.

THE FEAR OF THE LORD DRAWS US TO GOD. Fear as we often think of it tends to send us fleeing and hiding, but the fear of the Lord has a different affect. When Rahah saw who God was, she drew near. She came close and tended to His people and spoke with the hopes that her voice would reach His ears.

THE FEAR OF THE LORD MELTS THE HEART IN BOTH HEALTHY FEAR AND HUMILITY. What happens when something melts? A hard thing becomes soft and movable. Rahab knew the God of Israel had the right to judge her; He had the right to give her city into the hands of His people. Her pride melted away in the face of the Lord, and she, with great humility asked for mercy. You can see her humility here in her plea in verses 12–13; she didn’t even ask for them to spare HER because of her kindness to them (she knew what she deserved), instead she asked them to save her family. All of Rahab’s pride was gone, she recognized that God could rightfully judge her and she humbled herself before Him.

THE FEAR OF THE LORD LEADS TO OBEDIENCE. Rahab obeyed. The men of Israel told her that she should tie a scarlet cord in her window to be spared Jericho’s plight and she did it…right away. They were barely out of sight and the scarlet cord was already being secured in the window. A heart that fears the Lord will look to Him with the posture that says, “I will do whatever You ask.” Rahab didn’t ask why a scarlet cord mattered, she didn’t ask when they would come back, she didn’t wait and see if she should bother doing what they said…she simply obeyed and put her hope in the God she had acknowledged as true. She would have done anything required of her. Her decisions showed that she had faith, and she is mentioned in Hebrews 11, a chapter known for presenting us with heroes of the faith. It says, “By faith Rahab the prostitute did not perish with those who were disobedient, because she had given a friendly welcome to the spies.” Her obedience by faith, and the actions she took because of it, saved both her life and the lives of her family.

Here is the thing: When you fear God, it will change the way you live your life…it is impossible to fear God and keep living however you want because NOONE is more respectable and exalted than Jehovah. Because He is who He says He is, when we acknowledge Him, it will effect everything about us. The fear of the Lord is one of the biggest things missing from the American Church. This deficit allows us to remain apathetic, half-hearted, lukewarm, and polluted. If we really believe the Bible is true and that the God of the Bible is who He says He is, there is a clear path we will find ourselves on…and Rahab the prostitute shows us what that looks like.

to touch the Father

 the wrestle
©4-4-2024 hannah mclean

He is Jehovah-Rapha, the God who heals
we come to Him again and again
when the broken world breaks us
when the wounded world wounds us
when the fallen nature seeks to fell us  

“be who You say You are,” we plead

and sometimes in our seeking of healing,
the Lord reaches out and touches our body
or our soul
and we are well in a moment

but often times the healing is slow
we must squirm out from under our bondage
feel the pain of the washing of punctured flesh
our deliverance requiring time
the wait warranting a wrestle

and our hearts cry out, “Why?!”

this morning as i looked into the face of the raising sun
and pondered why the wrestle
the Spirit pressed on me
“it is in the wrestle that we get to touch the Father.”

healing in a moment feels the touch of God
but healing through a wrestle
finds the hands clinging to the Father’s arms
beating against the Father’s chest
winding around the Father’s feet

the wrestle is where we draw near:
near enough to feel
the breath of God upon our face;
near enough to feel with our fingers
the finished work of Jesus;
near enough to know not just the Father’s touch
but what it feels like to be with Him

with every reaching hand
and clinging grasp
we learn both the strength
and the gentleness
of the Almighty’s hands and heart

do not despise the wrestle
the wrestle is where we touch the Father

how long?

 the fool who believed
©12-12-22 hannah mclean

i whimper beneath
this heap of broken things
the pieces of the crushed
the defeated
the battles lost
bury my body

strength long proven
too little
fight to climb out
too fleeting

how long?

why do i hear
the trumpet of victory
sound from
my enemy’s camp
when i lean on
the Greater Power?

the shame You promised
to bear away
has stacked itself
upon my shoulders

sin broke
and scorn remains

how long?

the enemy mocks
the seeming futility
of my faith
“where is your God?”

but i know who You are
i would rather be
the fool who believed
than the fool who scoffed

 

------

 

"Consider and answer me, O Lord my God; light up my eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death, lest my enemy say, "I have prevailed over him," lest my foes rejoice because I am shaken." Psalm 13:3–4

The widow's faith

We’re on 1 Kings 17:7–24 in BSF. It’s a familiar story of Elijah and the widow, but I can’t seem to shake it this time. I usually hear people talk about this story in a way that somehow glosses over the depth of it, or fixes its eyes on Elijah's portion…but my considerations have been of the widow. I have been processing through why I can’t seem to move my heart past her and here is where I have landed in regards to why my heart reverberates with this widow and her walk:

Let me tell you this story in my own words. Elijah had been living near a brook during a drought and the Lord had been sustaining him in miraculous ways…until the brook dried up. Then the Lord sent him to another place with the assurance that He had “told a widow to feed him there.” So by faith, Elijah went where the Lord sent him, and there he found a widow, just as the Lord said. From a distance, he called out to her and asked her for something to drink, and the widow’s like, “I’ll go get you some water.” But then he asks for something to eat. And the widow recognizes that this is the man God sent for her to feed, and she says, ”Look, Man of God, I haven’t prepared for your coming or made you any bread. Do you want to know what I’ve chosen to do right now instead? Every day I’ve been watching my food supplies run out as I look into the face of my hungry son. Today I am on the very last of what I have, so I’m getting sticks to build a fire and have one last meal with my son before we die from lack.” Can’t you just hear the weariness in her words? But in that moment where she had run out of faith, Elijah brought enough for them both, and he said to her, “Do not fear. Go ahead and make that bread, but before you eat it with your son, give me a little portion first. Because here is the Lord’s promise to you, ‘The jar of flour shall not be spent, and the jug of oil shall not be empty, until the day that the Lord sends rain upon the earth.’” Basically, if you walk by faith now, you will reap reward. So the widow did what Elijah requested. And the Lord blessed her faith.

But it says after many days, the widow’s son died. And she went to Elijah and poured out her frustration and despair, “This is on you! Your presence here does not strengthen my faith, it simply reminds me of the weight of my epic doubt, and even as I have walked daily in obedience to the command of the Lord, now He has taken away my son. It would have been better had we died together before this miracle.” 

And Elijah, he didn’t rebuke her or argue with her…he was a man who knew the pain of finding hardship on the path of obedience. He simply took her son, and stormed the throne room on her behalf. For many days he had watched her life, had eaten at her table, had bore witness to the growing discomfort of receiving a miracle her faith did not earn her. I love how without reservation, he poured out his confusion and desperation to God. “Lord, NO! Why would You take away her son?! There has been too much loss, bring him back to her, Lord. Give this weary woman back her child.”

And the Lord listened to the voice of Elijah, and He allowed him to return to the widow with her son, not in his arms, but by his side. Elijah said, “See, your son lives.” And the widow said, “Now I know that you are a man of God, and that the word of the Lord in your mouth is truth.”

I resonate SO hard with this widow. I know what it feels like to be facing lack and clinging to the thing you desperately want to flourish with no idea how to proceed. And then from that place the Lord saying, “I want more from you.” 

I remember the moment the ultrasound tech looked up at me with her wand on my abdomen and said, “There are 2 babies.” I went home and lifted my hands up to the Lord and said something along the lines of, “What are You doing?! Why in the world would You call me to carry TWO children when You KNOW that my physical body barely makes it out of single pregnancies alive…and even though I have survived thus far, two of my babies have not. I am a broken incubator, and I (and/or both of these babies) am going to die because of what You have called me to.” I did not faithfully stride forward in my twin pregnancy, I “gathered sticks” and wrestled my fear. And when the Lord brought me a word of promise, I did not watch with expectation, I watched with genuine curiosity at how He would carry my body to the end of the pregnancy…how He would draw from my lack what was required to grow two babies…because I knew the facts, namely, that I did not hold what was required to bring it to fruition. I lived. Jane and Sia lived. And my body, the thing that bore the physical strain of carrying two humans, thrived through what it never should have been able to endure. 

But let’s look again at the widow’s journey. Elijah’s presence and the daily miracle, it didn’t magnify the widow’s faith, it reminded her that she doubted God when He called her; it ate away at her that she hadn’t been stronger, hadn’t trusted God more, had counted Him too small. And when her son died, she couldn’t quite bring herself to ask the God she had doubted for another miracle…and so she reached for the faith of the man who she knew could. By faith, he brought back her son to her with breath in his lungs and life in his bones, and his word “see…” pushed through the veil of shame and drew her faith from flailing to flourishing. “Now I know…”

My body—the thing that endured against all odds only by the promise and power of God—it has crashed and burned since the babies’ birth. Failure and weakness seem to have spoken the final word over it, it grimaces up from the dust wondering how the God who called me to such a task would leave me in such a condition when I had looked to Him every day—imperfectly, yes, but wholly nonetheless. I find myself looking around, eyes searching for the one who will let me lean upon their faith-filled shoulder, who believes that the grim realities of earth are no hindrance to the God who made it, who will charge the gates of heaven on my behalf and cry out to the Lord who loves us both and say, “No! Give this weary woman back her health.” 

 

Because I am waiting. I am waiting for the moment of return…where the word “see” makes visible, and the “knowing” brings about the testimony I was promised.

I find encouragement in this widow. I may not yet be able to muster up the faith of Elijah as he stands on the top of a mountain beside a multitude of false prophets calling down fire on a sopping wet altar…but I can wrap my head around the faith of the weathered widow. I love that God brought together this unlikely pair of worshipers and used them in each others lives. Because I am certain that it is not an accident that for Elijah, the journey beside the widow preceded the altar on the mountain.

Over the Waters

It's been a season where I feel like I'm caught in a perpetual rain storm, I know that when it stops raining the scene that will be in front of me will be full of beauty...I can feel the impending thrill of a new season. But the transition has been long and arduous. I've found myself pulling up a chair in the presence of the One who separated the waters in Genesis 1, who parted the waters in Exodus 14, who opened rocks and earth to draw water up from the depths of the earth (Exodus 17) and broke open clouds to make it pour down from the sky (Genesis 7), who brings the rain as easily as He stops it (1 Kings 18), and manages the waves of oceans (Job 38). This song comes from my time in this chair:

i stand
in falling waters
they pour upon my head
i look
through blurry vision
eyes searching for what Your said
for I know
who You are and
i know on
Whom I stand
my voice rings out
through sounds of thunder
to the One who holds me
by my right hand

Part the waters
like You’ve done before
separate the waters
by the power of Your word
order the waters
make them pools beneath my feet
You bring order to the chaos
for the waters bend to Your authority

i stand
in falling waters
they pour upon my head
i look
through blurry vision
eyes searching for what You said
for I know
You are truth and
I know I
will not fall
my voice cries out
through rushing torrents
to the One who keeps me
Lord over all

Part the waters
like You’ve done before
separate the waters
by the powers of Your word
order the waters
make them pools beneath my feet
You bring order to the chaos
for the waters bow to Your authority

Holy Blood for tainted flesh

deliverance
©5-7-2022 hannah mclean

i can feel the turning
of the tides that wouldn’t let up
i can hear the falling
of the chains that wouldn’t release
i can smell the changing
of the seasons that have brought perpetual decline
i can see the glories
of the hidden mysteries of His heart

who are you,
o enemy of Christ’s beloved,
to stop the Finished Work
from hitting its mark?

for what is it that poured with such a force
to push back the tide i couldn’t bear up against
to break the chains i could not pry apart
to change the days from barren to fruitful
to pull aside the veil to reveal the depths and heights?

it’s the Blood
Holy Blood for tainted flesh
Redeeming Blood for bloody curse
Blood that speaks a better word
the final word
with authority that makes you flee
carrying your workmanship away with you

and so i feel and hear and smell and see
i let the waters shift
the power move
the seasons transform before my eyes
where years of faith give way to sight
and endless darkness give way to light
and i lean in
into the wonders coming
from the fullness of the Finished Work
i have longed and labored to lay hold of

The days of waiting

Holy Week ponderings:

It’s a day of waiting.
It seems to be intentionally placed;
between the horrors of Friday and the wonders of Sunday.
A day to grieve and to remember and to ponder.
It’s like the Lord sat His followers down lest they fight or flee;
Peter gave us a glimpse onto both of these paths
with the swinging sword
and the rooster’s crow.
A sabbath.
Rest up, He seemed to insist,
the real work is coming.

It’s a day of waiting.
My mind keeps wandering to Mary Magdalene.
I sit beside her with her wringing, wondering hands;
hands that had been redeemed for anointing and for honoring.
Mary wanted to be with her Lord;
in His life she had been by His side,
close enough to wipe His feet with her tears
and close enough to hear the whisper of His thirst.
In His death she resisted still the separation.
But the sabbath forced her feet to stay
when apart from Him is not where she longed
to linger.

It’s a day of waiting.
They had a promise, you know.
He told them what would be:
Death by crucifixion
and three days later
risen to new life.
Peter wouldn’t accepted it;
he rebuked the truth
and waged war on hands that bound and led away his Lord
to fulfill His purpose.
But sometimes it’s the times of waiting after the horrors of Friday
that dig out of us the faith
to hope in the promise of Sunday.

These intentionally placed days of waiting…
may we not waste them.

A blind song.

I read Exodus 31–33 today in my reading plan, and I am undone. I choked my way through the children of Israel asking Aaron, the leader while Moses was up on the mountain with God, to make them a new god since Moses might not return. And then Aaron obliged them and fashioned a golden calf for them to worship, and I sobbed my way through his attributing the works of God to a shiny object fashioned by his own hands, and then with those defiled hands, making sacrifices to this idol on an altar. I wept and wondered at the relationship between Moses and the Lord; how he without hesitation placed himself between God’s wrath and God’s people—leaning on the promises from God’s own mouth. Tears ran down my face as I delighted in his desire to know God more; building upon his face-to-face friendship with God a desire to never live apart from His presence and to gain ever clearer vision of His glory. A terrible, beautiful read for sure.

But tucked into the middle of these verses, I found a sobering warning that I want to share with you.

While Moses was up on the mountain with the Lord as He wrote in stone His law, and while Aaron and Israel were worshiping an idol at the bottom of the mountain in their camp…somewhere in between stood Joshua. Unlike the rest of Israel, he was still waiting for Moses to return, his eyes were still looking up and his knees had not bowed to the calf of gold. And when Moses walked down the mountain to lay eyes on Israel’s rebellion, he met Joshua who said to him these chilling words: “There is a noise of war in the camp.” But he said, “It is not the sound of shouting for victory, or the sound of the cry of defeat, but the sound of singing that I hear.” (Exodus 32:17b–18)

Joshua didn’t know what was going on, but he recognized it as the noise of war. Israel DID know what was going on, but did not recognize that it was the noise of war.
To Joshua, the noises of war should have been clear—shouts of victory or cries of defeat. He was confused that while he recognized a war was going on, its sound was unfamiliar. Those in the war were singing. Why were they singing?

Because they didn’t recognize they were in a war.

Israel had folded to their fear and given themselves over to their true enemy. They had thrown away their faith in the God of Israel and given themselves over to their sight without a fight, and while they should have been crying out at their defeat, they were blind in their own rebellion and rejection of the Lord and instead danced around singing as the wrath of God threatened to pour down.

And that’s sobering. I feel like that’s a good consideration for today; we dance around our idols (anything—good or bad—that we place above the Lord), rejoicing in their shiny surfaces, singing praises to gods of our own making…not realizing that we are in a war and we are neglecting the fight. But if we don’t open our eyes, in the end there will be no collective shout of victory, instead there will be crescendoing cries of eternal defeat.

Open up your eyes, Church! Are you holding your place in the battle? Or have you chosen instead an empty song?

The earth and me

God is faithful to minister to me—often in odd and unexpected places—which is where I found myself today as I read Genesis 7–9 and quietly cried beside my daughter doing her distance learning. It is in these chapters that we recount the story of Noah and the flood. As I read the repeated phrases about the waters upon the earth and Noah’s place inside the ark, I found myself resonating with the story in a deeply moving way.

But it was not Noah whose place I felt, it was the earth.

I know what it is to be the earth, bearing broken things and their painful effects instead of living in the beauty of its intentioned design to flourish. I know what it is to be derailed and seemingly destined for desolate places as the flow of disparaging things shape, twist and destroy what could be. I know what it is to feel the “waters prevail and increase” and beat upon me, slowly and effectively laying waste all that wishes to thrive and grow.

But here’s the thing about the earth in Noah’s story: There were things living on the earth and in it that needed to die so that it could flourish; there were toxic, vile things that had made themselves at home and day after day increased death instead of life. And while the waters prevailing and increasing and remaining were shape-shifting and jarring and startling and confusing, the waters served their purpose to bring about the goodness that God desired: A new beginning.

Throughout the entirety of this story, the earth was not without promise: It rode upon the tops of the waves in the ark that housed the man who had found favor with God.

Why were the waters unable to utterly destroy the earth? Chapter 7 ends with “everything on the dry land is whose nostrils was the breath of life died.” By means of the raging waters, every living thing was “blotted out.” But chapter 8 starts with “But God remembered Noah…” God saw the full effects of the waters, and at His command, He stopped their movement forward in an instant. There are 2 words used to describe the waters coming in chapter 7, they are Rabah and Gabar, which basically mean “many” and “mighty.” But there are 6 different words used to describe what happens when the Lord remembers Noah and acts: these words are complex and full. They begin in verse 1 of chapter 8 with “the waters subsided” [Shakak—to decrease, to tend downward, to render unable]; and end in verse 11 with “the water dried up” [Charab—to be laid to waste, to be made desolate].

So these words and this story moved me this morning. I love that the waters that destroyed so effectively were rendered desolate by the Lord; I have often used this word to describe how I feel in the wake of my health. I love that the waters lost their power to progress and cause further harm. I love that even the crushing weight of the waters from inside and outside of the earth had no power to stop it from producing new life after all seemed lost. I love that even though God didn’t instantaneously remove the water from the earth after it had killed the things that needed to die, eventually the waters were laid to waste and the earth was able to bring forth good growth in accordance with God’s intended design.

And these things comfort me. They comfort me because right now I feel like the earth…and all I see above me are muddy waters, and all I feel within me is the stench of death and the pain of dying things…and I don’t know yet where I am in the process of reaching my new beginning, but I will choose to remember the smell of Spring, where the snow melts and the damp, dead things that were beneath it reveal themselves, and in that odd aroma of what was, the promise of what will be fills my mind with the hope of green grass, waving trees filled with leaves, and the vibrant colors of flowers taking over the now barren landscape.

Because here are some things that I know that I know:
God remembers His people.
God remembers His promises.
And God is always able to bring forth new life…even when we feel like the earth buried beneath endless waters.

Prolonged waiting

This morning my mind found its way to this poem I wrote way back in the day. It starts, "i know that You have not forgotten me..." and it speaks to the pain of a prolonged season of waiting.

How I long to wait well--exuding rock-solid faith--but I languish and waiver and cling. I lament that I don't display steadiness, I so often just display desperation; hands that threaten to let go, a heart that fights panic, feet that want to run to other means.

But today I thought that maybe faith isn't most clearly displayed through ROCK...maybe it's understood best through REMAINING; through fighting the urge to run, pushing back the doubts that threaten to derail, refusing the striving that seeks to usurp. 

 

Maybe faith is displayed most clearly by the revealing of rock; mined through the force of dislodging the unsteady pieces of self that hide and hinder.

Maybe faith is displayed most clearly when the crucible of life serves its painful, perfect purpose.

And for that, I am grateful. Because I may not yet be rock-solid, but my faith is in the One who is.

New Year comforts

The turn of this year has been a hard one. The most fitting word I have been able to find to describe how I have felt is DEJECTED. It means “thrown down.” But the Father is so faithful to minister to me, and from the sorrow of evening one, to the morning of day two, He has ministered so deeply to my heart. Here is the comfort He has given me as I begin this new year, perhaps it will lift you up as well.

------
sometimes all we can see
is the cross
where all is crushed
    and every way our eyes turn
    we find debilitating defeat
where satan seems victorious in
    his pursuit to destroy
and we forget
what lies beyond
the mangled wreckage
of darkness

we forget
    it is the Sovereign that
    speaks the final word
we forget
    that past the blood soaked beams
    lies the empty tomb
the resurrection
and the results of the Redeemer’s
finished work

sometimes all we can see
is the cross
and the pain of it
but we must purpose to remember
that the cross is but a doorway
    to hope fulfilled

so if you are here
looking upon the ashes
of fires you could not stop
from raging
remember
that just as the ugliness of the cross
    is but a bridge to glory
that these ashes are but the makings
    of a crown of beauty
when we rest upon
the love of the Almighty

A paraphrase of Psalm 143

Sometimes I find a Psalm that mirrors my heart’s cry, and in it I find the healing balm of companionship in my suffering. Here is my paraphrase of Psalm 143:

"Lord, hear my prayer! I’m crying out for mercy; pleading with You not to bring the judgment I deserve, but instead to bring Your faithful, righteous nature to tend to me because my life is all out of sorts.

I want to serve You freely, but the enemy won’t let up. He pursues the entirety of me; he crushes my whole life into the ground. My body fails, I cannot endure the pressing: I am dejected—thrown down. His foot won’t lift from my back; his figure and shadow block the light, and darkness overwhelms me. My spirit faints, Lord. My heart is appalled by self and circumstance.

As I sit here in the darkness with the oppressor’s strength upon me, I turn my mind to consider You; I lean upon the testimonies of what You have done…Your work and Your love, the ways You have worked in me and on me, turning my previous seasons of fainting in parched deserts into flourishing vineyards of flowing new wine. I remember who You are, I remember Your heart for me and Your power in me and Your love for me. I stretch out my hands to You. You say if we thirst, we are to come to You, and I am like a scorched land—dried up and emptied of life. I hunger and thirst for You and I will be satisfied.

Quickly, Lord. I languish. I need Your hand and Your help now. My spirit fails. Don’t turn Your face from me or hide the light of Your countenance from me. If You turn away, all is lost for me.

Let me hear You this morning—in the opening of my eyes to the promise of light, I trust if I listen, I will hear the song of love You sing over me.

Make me know the way I should go, for all of my hope for standing or moving from beneath the enemy’s strength is found in You. You are ALL of my hope. ALL of me is crying out to be lifted by ALL of You. Deliver me! I have run to You for refuge, let me find deliverance in the shelter of Your presence.

Teach me Your will, for You are my God. Not enemy or self or any other thing gets to direct me from this point. I want things Your way, according to Your will—no lesser thing will do. Your Spirit is good, only You can lead me on level ground, in right ways, so that I rise in good standing with solid foundation beneath my feet. I want my feet to land upon the narrow way, the path of life.

For Your name’s sake, Lord, preserve my life. I am Your servant, I carry Your name as I journey through this life. I want people to look at me and see Your love, your righteousness and Your standards at work; I want them to watch you intimately weave Your life into the life of one You made. If You are not working in me and on me and through me, I will tarnish Your name. For Your name’s sake, I need You to lift my soul from this trouble in a display of Your righteousness at work. I need You to flood me with Your steadfast love and cut of my enemy’s power over me through it. Your love destroys the oppressor’s grip, it causes the adversary’s vexation to cease, it overrules the afflicter’s power to destroy.

I long to serve You well. In every way the enemy hinders this longing in this season, for the sake of Your name, make manifest Your victory and lift me up."

What my ruin cannot rob me of

It was one of those day. They don’t happen often, maybe a handful of times in my life. I looked in the mirror and my involuntary reaction to what I saw was to weep. I bawled. The body of the person looking back at me was so broken, so fallen, so grotesque that the hope-extracting question that lingers in the back of my mind hit me like a whip and left a ringing in my ears: “Is my body so far gone that it is irreparable?” I wanted to respond with, “No. With God all things are possible;” but my memory knows the paths my body has walked and limped and staggered and dragged itself. So instead I let myself sink to the floor and give the tears the time they needed to fall.

When the wells of sorrow or disappointment or discouragement or whatever painful mix those salty waters held finally ran dry, I stood and dried my face as I heard myself whisper, “Grieve quickly the things you cannot change.”

Twenty years have taught me that it’s on the days like these that I know I need to cover my broken body with a garment of thankfulness. So as I opened the door that allowed me my moment of confrontation, I chose to be grateful that even in my state of perpetual ruin, I can still serve the Lord.

And with that truth a necessary crutch, I continue my limp as I wait for tomorrow, because tomorrow is a new day…and maybe that one will be the day of redemption.

———

John 12:1–3 “Six days before the Passover, Jesus therefore came to Bethany, where Lazarus was, whom Jesus had raised from the dead. So they gave a dinner for him there. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those reclining with him at table. Mary therefore took a pound of expensive ointment made from pure nard, and anointed the feet of Jesus and wiped his feet with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.”

A meditation on Psalm 73: "Nevertheless"

I’ve been reading Psalm 73 the last few days and my meditations on the truths there have been so powerful and timely for me that I wanted to share them with you.

Before I launch into the passage I want to speak specifically about, I’m going to give you a brief overview of what’s going on in this psalm. The psalmist here is looking at the world around him and he sees incredible wickedness; people are doing terrible things, oppression is rampant and people marked by arrogance, violence, mockery, and evil are prospering. They are flourishing in the world, with just blatant disregard for God and certainty that there is no consequence for their actions. And the psalmist is looking at all this happening and is crying out, “Why do the wicked prosper?! What is going on?!” He’s like, “God, I have not joined them, so why do I suffer and they flourish?” And finally, it says he goes into the house of the Lord and God shows him their end.
    If you are struggling with what you see in the world around you and want clear vision, that comes from the Lord, go get in His presence and seek Him.

The last portion of this psalm ends with the passage I want to talk about. Verses 23–26:
“NEVERTHELESS, I am continually with You: You hold my right hand. You guide me with Your counsel, and afterward You will receive me to glory. Whom have I in heaven but You? And there is nothing on earth that I desire besides You. My flesh and my heart may fail, but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever.”

My favorite word in this entire Psalm is “nevertheless.” This word is a hinge between the beginning and the end of this psalm. The verses before are in 3 pieces: First, the psalmist lays out his complaint before God: Why do the wicked prosper?! Second, he goes into the house of the Lord and sees things through God’s eyes. And third, he is humbled. Right before this passage, the psalmist lays out his heart before God…and it is tainted by sin. He confesses that his heart is pricked and his soul is embittered…not just a bitter heart, but a bitter soul—your soul is the entirety of your being. In watching the evil unfold in the world around him and seeking to understand it with his own eyes, he became bitter and his actions overflowed in sin toward God: He says, “I was brutish and ignorant, I was like a beast toward You.”
    We must be very cautious; if we try to navigate the evils of this world in our own strength, vision and righteousness, we will find ourselves overcome by the darkness.

This “nevertheless” is gloriously full. It is full of wonder, of mercy and grace, of humility…and it leads to worship.

    When we seek God for clear vision, He doesn’t just show us one angle. We see 3 things in this Psalm that He gives us clear vision of: He showed the psalmist that the wicked’s prospering had an end. He gave the psalmist a greater understanding of God—that He is a God of righteousness and justice who will eventually make all things right. And He revealed to the psalmist the condition of his own heart. Because here’s the truth, there’s not such thing as “good people” and “bad people”…here are just sinful people who need Jesus…and some of us are already clinging to Him to be counted righteous before a holy God, and some of us are not yet.

And I love this “nevertheless”…the psalmist has seen the righteous justice of God and it has revealed the wickedness of his own heart. He had tried to understand the world around him in his own strength, he had RIGHTLY cried out against wickedness and RIGHTLY desired justice. He had suffered and observed oppression and had risen up when there seemed to be no consequence for the evil he saw and experienced. But to maintain a pure heart before the Lord when we try to understand the world around us, it is vital that we go to Him to process because on our own we are no less wicked apart from Jesus that the ones we cry out against.

And this psalmist sees that. And you can almost hear his sigh of relief as He says, “Nevertheless, I am continually with you.” I’m still with You! You’re still with ME! You hold my hand so my flesh does not cast me down completely. You are so kind to offer me Your counsel when I cry out, You are so faithful to guide me. And I marvel that even now, You will still receive me into glory. Nevertheless.

And I love that this full and humble sigh leads to a heart that pours out in worship: My longing is YOU, Lord! My desire is YOU! My strength is YOU! My portion is YOU! At the end of the day, You are all I want and I have You.

When our response to the wickedness and injustice around us reveals the wickedness of our own hearts, let us rejoice, delight and wonder at the “nevertheless” that we find in the mercy of God. Because we must remember that our God is His beauty is incredibly patient. He knows the end of all things, and with Him, justice delayed is not justice denied. It is just that He does not want ANYONE, no matter how vile, to die without knowing salvation in Jesus. And so He waits. And as people who believe He is righteous and just, we must humble ourselves before Him. And it can be so painful to wait with Him. We must lament how our impatience can lead to bitterness of heart and soul, and how this effects the way we view our Holy, timely God. And we must marvel and cling to our own “nevertheless” and the mercy it holds as we consider with clarity things through God’s eyes. Let us be worshipers of God in the face of wickedness and oppression.

Because at the end of the day, you and I need Jesus…no matter how many years we walk with Him, we will never need Him less. And what a glory it is to say, “nevertheless” He’s with me! He keeps me when I struggle with sin, He guides me with His counsel when I can’t see the whole picture, and He afterward will still receive me to glory! Whom have I in heaven but You, God?! Earth has NOTHING I desire besides You. My flesh and my heart may fail again and again and again…but glory be, YOU are the strength of my heart and my portion FOREVER.

So I leave you with this: IF you are struggling to see past our unraveling society and what it holds, cry out to God for vision. And then repent. Marvel. And Worship.

“Nevertheless”