The Backstory: How I Got Here

To articulate where I am now (in the Anglican church), I must first reflect on where I have been. All of us are story-shaped: profoundly influenced by how we were raised, what we have experienced, who we have known and loved. I am lucky to have had positive experiences among Baptist, Pentecostal, Presbyterian, and Roman Catholic communities. In other words, my story has shown me the beauty not just in one tradition, but in the whole church. (It has also shown me brokenness, dysfunction, and sin in the whole church—more on that later.)

My family is Southern Baptist on both sides for many generations. My grandparents were Baptist missionaries. I was baptized by immersion at age five after making a profession of faith. I was homeschooled, memorized Bible verses at Awana, and assumed I would one day follow in my grandparents’ footsteps and become a cross-cultural missionary.

When I was eleven, my father was diagnosed with cancer and given six months to live. He was forty; he had six young children. My parents, desperate for a miracle, began asking a lot of questions about healing and whether God is still in the business of reversing death sentences. Our Baptist church at the time didn’t have a strong imagination for this, so we ended up at a Pentecostal church during his illness.

After my father died, I had a whole new set of questions as a young teenager: What does it mean when miracles don’t come, when fervent prayers aren’t answered the way we hope? How do we hold faith in an all-powerful, all-good God who doesn’t always act on our behalf in the ways we think he should? This led me to the Reformed tradition, to mentors who taught me about God’s sovereignty and his mysterious providence even in the hard things.

By the time I was in seminary, I cheekily referred to myself as a “Bapti-presby-costal” because each of these streams of Christianity had formed me deeply. Then, I discovered the sacraments. Part 1 of this discovery was becoming convinced that weekly Eucharist is a superb way to teach people about the God who has come near to be with us and dwell with us. Part 2 of this discovery was what happened in my own faith and my own life after I started receiving weekly Eucharist.

The Brass Tacks: Why I’m Still Here

It won’t surprise anyone who has read my book that the Eucharist is what brought me into the Anglican church. But once I got there, I realized how many other things I’d been missing all along. The Eucharist has helped me grow in my faith but so has the church calendar: If we are all story-shaped, what better story around which to organize our worship than the story of redemption? Every year we revisit the good news again, taking time to pause and reflect together on each part of it—Jesus’ birth and our desperate need for it, his ministry on earth, his death, resurrection and ascension, the gift of the Holy Spirit and our mission to the world, his ongoing presence with us, and our hope for Jesus’ return at the end of history. We never graduate from the gospel; we can only go deeper into it. The church’s liturgy is designed to help us do that.

The Anglican tradition also opened my eyes to a more global and ancient church than I’d known before. Sure, I knew there were Christians around the world from a young age. But I didn’t know that there were so many Christians in such active community around the world—that we share leaders (bishops) and traditions (liturgy) and even study the same Scriptures on the same Sundays (lectionary). I also knew that the church was born two thousand years ago. But growing up Protestant, my theological education functionally omitted most of the tradition between the New Testament and the Reformation— as if what happened between the second and sixteenth centuries of the church didn’t really count.

Becoming Anglican has not felt like a departure from my evangelical upbringing— it has felt like an expansion of it. The serious study of Scripture, the power of the Holy Spirit, the mysterious providence of God: all of these treasures are retained in the Anglican tradition. But so are two thousand years of church history, the real presence of Jesus in the Eucharist, and the support of the liturgy—centuries worth of prayers handed down to help us grow up into this ancient faith. (Spontaneous prayer also has a role in the life of faith, but liturgy helps us even with this—it’s like the chord structure of orthodoxy which then teaches us how to improvise well.)

Why Not Catholicism?

This is a question that often arises when Anglicans start gushing about liturgy and sacraments and church history. If those are the reasons we are drawn to this tradition, why not “keep going” all the way to the Catholic or Orthodox Church? I think it’s a fair question—though it’s one I never would have asked in my twenties. Like a good evangelical, I grew up with a lot of suspicion toward Christians whose faith I assumed was “compromised” by “unbiblical” teachings and traditions.

Now, I see things differently. I would not argue on principal against someone converting to Catholicism or Orthodoxy any more than I would argue against them joining any creedal, Trinitarian Church. I would ask: What’s driving you to this decision? Who have been your guides? What do you hope to find on the other side of conversion? If it’s a perfect church you’re looking for, you’ll be disappointed—but if you feel this is where Jesus is calling you, I sincerely believe you will find him there.

The reason I am not Catholic or Orthodox—at least as of this writing—is that I personally feel that the Anglican Church affords me the greatest unity with Christians on both sides of the Reformation. This theologian said it well in the context of liturgy, but I think it applies writ large: “Anglican [liturgy] is distinctive because it balances in a remarkable way continuity with the Church before the Reformation, with Reformation concerns and principles.”

Anglicans have problems. A whole lot of them. At times I feel weary or disillusioned by them all. But because I have been in ministry for a while now— and because I have friends in many other traditions— I know that everyone’s got problems. So I write about why I’m Anglican not to try and convince anyone, “Come over here and everything will be great!” but to hopefully convey, “Here are the gifts my church has to give.” I do think they’re pretty great. At the same time, I eagerly await the day we are all at one Table, sharing the gifts we’ve all received from our one Host. For now, I believe he has called me to this one.

Hannah+

PS- This piece is not even an attempt to exhaustively explain/expound any of the above. Books and books have been written on topics like liturgy, the Reformation, ecumenism, church history, etc. My goal was to introduce and illustrate some of the themes that have been most important in my own faith journey (and to stick to a reasonable word count). If you are interested in more resources, here are some that came to mind as I was writing:

-this podcast interview with Rev. Dr. Matthew S.C. Olver, an Episcopal priest and liturgical historian (other episodes of this podcast are great too)

-my book about how the Eucharist forms us as people of hope— which I pray will resonate with and enrich Christians of all traditions

-these accessible books about the church calendar, “rote” prayer, and other FAQs about the Anglican way

-the first public piece I ever wrote, about why I went ACNA and not TEC. There’s more that could be said than I say here, but I still agree with what’s written.

-this creepy but awesome podcast co-hosted by a Catholic exorcist and a Protestant entrepreneur (really— it’s weird and I love it).

I am not a biblical scholar, a philosopher, a scientist, or a historian. I do not expect to write some kind of slam-dunk defense of Christian faith or present any internet-breaking evidence for the resurrection of Jesus. (If you want to hear some interesting conversion stories or apologetics from people with PhDs, there are plenty. Check out Martin Shaw or NT Wright or Molly Worthen.)

I am not an expert or public intellectual, but I am still responsible for my choices. I am orienting my life toward a certain story, and as a pastor and a mom I am wielding what little influence and authority I have in the lives of others to point them in the same direction. This compels me to periodically pause and reflect: Why do I believe this stuff? Do I really have peace about inviting others to trust an invisible God and a future hope? These questions aren’t only for scholars; they’re for all Christians.

Why is a good question for all of us to ask, regardless of what we believe. Whether we like it or not, whether we are aware of it or not, most of our lives are spent in echo chambers. It’s easy to forget that there are good reasons for not believing or thinking or living the way you do—so why are you on the path you’re on?

I could be on the Christian path because it’s comfortable. It’s what I was taught growing up, and most people I know espouse faith. But the older I get, the less comfortable Christianity becomes for me. It is socially awkward to tell the other moms at my kids’ public school or the nice guy next to me on an airplane, “I follow a man I’ve never seen, but who I believe was born of a virgin and raised from the dead and is now in heaven and will one day return to renew the earth.” (Someone I met a couple years ago, after I told him I am a Christian, responded laughingly, “And I belong to the church of the flying spaghetti monster!”)

In addition to being publicly uncomfortable, Christian faith is also privately uncomfortable. I regularly chafe against submitting to a God who cares not only about what beliefs I express on paper but also what secret thoughts I indulge, what resentments I harbor, what small choices I make when nobody is looking. For me, and really for the majority of Christians throughout history and around the world, Christianity is not all that comfortable.

I could also be a Christian because it’s expedient. Who cares if something sounds weird if it works? My brother eats one meal a day: a pound of steak and four eggs. To me this sounds insane. But he feels better when he eats like this, so he does it. A lot of people assume—or even feel pressure to insist—that Christianity is practical, that it “works” for people, like any good self-help program. I beg to differ. I do not believe, despite how nice it would be, that Christian faith makes life fall into place. If anything, Jesus himself promised the exact opposite: “Follow me and your life will fall into the shape of a cross.” (Matt. 16:24)

This is not to say Christianity doesn’t offer an effective way of being in the world. The upside-down principals Jesus taught like forgiving enemies, forgetting wealth, and loving neighbors have changed the world precisely because they work—they lead to society’s healing. But the pursuit of these things doesn’t always yield the results we want in the short term. Following Jesus for me has looked like letting go of expediency, of practical solutions or promised outcomes. It has looked like entrusting myself to a story I can’t fully see and that sometimes feels entirely imaginary. Following Jesus isn’t the way to get rich or live an enviable, impressive life. It’s a way of dying to those goals.

So, why would anyone do it? Why walk the Christian path, a cross-shaped road that is uncomfortable and at times frustrating? My personal answer is because more than anything else I’ve encountered, the Christian story coheres. It tells me that this world is good, made by a God who loves it and therefore will not abide its corruption. Our anger over injustice, cruelty, pollution, and violence is more than an arbitrary or self-made moral judgment: it is an innate understanding of creation’s goodness and the problem of evil. This problem entered the world through sin and therefore also lives in me. The Christian story tells me that God’s response to this problem is to enter it himself in the form of a human being on a cross. And that his ultimate reversal of that evil will be complete when he returns, scars in hand. I follow Jesus because he alone has shown me how to hold honesty about the world (and myself) alongside hope for its healing (and mine).

That doesn’t mean I have no questions or doubts. It doesn’t mean I never struggle. But it does mean that in the struggle, I believe God has come near and that in the end, the struggle won’t be wasted. I am a Christian because I really do believe a man born of a virgin was raised from the dead and will never die again. I really do believe that one day we will see him and that he’ll wipe every tear from our eyes. I really do believe that because of this, it’s worth the trouble of caring about this world he loves and to work for its healing even if I won’t see it in my lifetime. Even if some days it sounds like a foolish dream.

It’s not comfortable or expedient, but I do believe this story is true. And though it is cross-shaped, at times laughable and often invisible, the way of Christ is also beautiful to me. It is the way he walked for me, for us, for the whole world. Because of him, I am compelled to follow.

Hannah+

PS- If you’re curious…

• This week I spoke with Curtis Chang on the Good Faith podcast about how the eucharist informs our hope for the world.

• The sermon I preached on Easter included almost none of the above, but a fair bit about Harry Potter (and my 9 year old and what this has to do with Mary Magdalene’s announcement of the resurrection)

• I am hugely grateful to the ~150 people (!) who’ve written an Amazon or GoodReads review of Feasting On Hope. If you’ve read it, would you take 30 seconds to go give it a rating? Reviews really help more readers find a book.

This sermon is still tucked away in my computer because I got very sick on Saturday night and didn’t get to preach it. (I’m ready for you next year, fifth week of Lent!) I joked with a friend about how instead of preaching Lazarus, I became Lazarus. This in itself was a good sermon for me to hear because it’s easy when we are responsible for things to think that it’s all up to us—if we don’t show up, get it done, do the things, it won’t happen. Then we taste our fragility and weakness and remember: there is a God, and we’re not him. It’s a severe mercy to discover that without you, the world keeps spinning.

But I’m realizing my time spent in John 11 wasn’t wasted, even though I won’t preach it for a year (or ever. Who knows what 2027 will bring!) I’d read it many times as a personal message to me, a bereaved sister. But last week I read it for the first time as a message for the church, bereaved for the world. This was a timely message given how many ways the world is in turmoil these days. We are watching wars and hearing rumors of wars; we are grieving injustice and misinformation and corruption and relational breakdown; we feel powerless to change it.

As Christians, we tend to respond to these crises in one of two ways. Either we hide behind our theological maxims, insulating ourselves from the pain and madness of it all with emotionless claims about God’s sovereignty and mysterious purposes— or we give ourselves fully to our grief over the state of all-the-things and become overwhelmed.

The gift that Jesus gave to Mary and Martha at the grave of Lazarus—and that he offers to us—is theological perspective AND compassionate presence. “I am the resurrection and the life, believe and you will see the glory of God”—but also, “Show me where you laid him.”

As we turn toward the pain of the world, it’s so hard to hold these two things together.

In our desire to offer theological perspective, we might talk about the problem of evil or the reality of sin or God’s sovereign purposes— but we might unintentionally convey a kind of callousness about the real pain and agony of life under these conditions.

Or on the flipside, in our desire to be present and empathetic with world in its pain, we can get lost in the bigness of its problems and feel overwhelmed ourselves. We can fall into the trap of despair, of grieving without hope.

Intimacy with the God of the gospel looks like staying alive to what’s hard without losing hope of the resurrection. It looks like presence and perspective—because that’s where God is. He’s in the mix of life as it comes to us in real time, and he is the life.

There is a God, and we are not him. There is a God, and he is not callous to the pain of the world. There is a God, and he is not powerless to change things. There is a God, and his name is Jesus. He weeps beside us (John 11:35) and gives life to the dead, calling into existence the things that do not exist. (Rom. 4:17) As he holds us, may we learn to hold the world in this hope.

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In other news…

March was a whirlwind with a visit to two churches in Dallas, TX and to Berry College in Rome, GA to talk about my book. Each audience has blessed me and taught me. College students have as many thoughts about hope as seasoned adults. Baptists have as much to say about the Eucharist as Anglicans. I’ve been so honored to share my story with others and to learn something of their stories in return.

Thank you to everyone who has read, reviewed, or engaged Feasting On Hope in some way!

In April, I head to Chicagoland to speak to a group of congregationalist churches about Communion and atonement, then to the Calvin Festival of Faith and Writing where I’m leading a lunch circle. If you are going to be there, I’d love to meet you!

Hannah+

PS- If you’re curious…

• One of my heroes Jessica Hooten Wilson interviewed me on her Substack (this will be free for everyone at the end of the month)

• I shared on two different evangelical pastor podcasts that want to think more about the Eucharist: FrontStage BackStage and Innovative Church Leaders

• I wrote about the Eucharist and justice (food for the hungry!) at the invitation of my new friend Drew Miller and talked about it with a former-pastor-former-chef-turned theologian who knows a lot more about cheese than I do.

It is weird.

Old Testament weird—ancient, confusing, fantastical, challenging, exciting.

Lots of it I don’t quite understand. If I’m honest, reading it has reminded me of faith: we plod along, day after day, in a story that is often mysterious to us.

At times we find refreshment and resonance: “I myself will be the shepherd of the sheep cause them to lie down in peace” (Ez. 34:15). But other times, it’s all Greek (or, in this case, Hebrew): “Wherever the spirit would go, they would go, and the wheels would rise along with them, because the spirit of the living creatures was in the wheels” (Ez. 1:20).

Having learned a bit of actual Greek and Hebrew, I can speak to the value of digging into the mystery. There’s a lot we can glean if we give ourselves to the study of God’s Word and his work in our lives. But there’s also a lot we’ll never fully grasp. There are seasons that don’t make sense or that suspend our belief.

Despite how much I hate this, our lack of understanding isn’t a flaw but a feature of faith: our faith holds us even when we can’t hold it. Because ultimately, we aren’t the storytellers. We are the storied; we are the ones being carried along in a narrative much, much bigger than we think. Much bigger than we can even appreciate. One day, we’re told, we’ll know fully—but even then, I don’t think we’ll know all things. We’ll know him, and that will be enough.

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I’ve been reflecting lately on the weirdness of having lived through a hard childhood and to now be sharing it with strangers publicly in a book. It’s very rewarding, of course, to see how God has put it to use—nothing is wasted if we offer it back to him. And yet, that doesn’t explain why it happened in the first place. Redemption of a thing doesn’t justify the original scandal.

As much as I like analysis and crave closure, I think conclusive explanations often cheapen reality. Confident faith looks less like having simple answers to all questions and more like being able to embrace paradoxical truths: God-and-man, sinner-and-saint, already-and-not-yet. In my life, this looks like embracing both lament and gratitude. I grieve what happened to my family, but I am grateful for how God has met me in it and how he has worked through it. The finer points really belong to him, not me.

Launching this book at the start of Lent has invited more reflection on this: even the parts of my story that I have processed well enough to articulate in 50,000 words, even the things I’m ready to shout from the rooftops, are subsumed in a larger story that I’ll never stop exploring. I say my bit, then I quiet down and listen. I receive ashes. I remember that I am not the lead character. It is quite freeing.

The story of redemption is weird. And so, so good. We’ll never get to the bottom of it.

My book is one week old today. I have so many people to thank for helping me send it into the world. If you pre-ordered, recommended to a friend, or wrote an Amazon review, thank you!! A highlight of last week for me was having my mom and two sisters drive from out of state to celebrate our Fat Tuesday/book launch party in North Carolina where I live. I loved sharing its message with my local church and their friends.

Another highlight was speaking at a church in Columbia, SC about how “hope in the wilderness” relates to Lent. Next month I go to Dallas, TX and Rome, GA. If you are in one of those areas, or if you are interested in hosting a conversation about Christian hope where you live this summer or fall, let me know!

Hannah+

PS- If you’re curious…

• Here are a few podcast conversations I’ve had about the book with friends Esau McCaulley, Courtney Ellis, Meg Cranshaw and Kat Silverglate.

• Here’s what I learned about Jesus’ temptation in the wilderness and what it can teach us about how to live (starts at around the 30 minute-mark)

• Here are some book excerpts: from one about church hurt at Christianity Today and here’s one from one about joy at Mere Orthodoxy . But shoot, if you’re going to read the excerpts you might as well just read the book!

As I write this, I’m sitting in my brightly lit, electrically heated house counting down the potential hours until our power goes out (and feeling extra thankful for our two fireplaces!). Winter Storm Fern is making its way across the country this weekend, and my fellow North Carolinians (and many others in the Southeast) are doing what we can to prepare for an uncertain week ahead. Hurricane Helene taught us the hard way: “preparedness” only goes so far in the face of nature’s matchless power.

This month I am sitting in another calm-before-the-storm as I anticipate the launch of my book into the world in February. I’m preparing for what I expect—some visits to churches and schools, some podcast interviews—and aware that there will also be some things I don’t expect out of this next season. Joys, challenges or disappointments, or all of the above. At the very least, a public discussion about personal details of my childhood (a risk I chose) will generate some unpredictability—what will people say, or ask me? How will I handle reading critical reviews, or positive ones? What will this new season do to my soul?

Writers can be very “special” about their interior lives. It’s easy to feel spiritual when I am sitting alone in a coffee shop with a bunch of open books and deep thoughts to occupy my mind. Engaging social media, pitching my work to strangers, and ordering a credit card reader feel decidedly less so. In fact, they sometimes feel downright cringey. And yet, this is the season I’m in, the one I’ve prepared for by writing this book—a message I deeply believe in and want to share with others. Walking it out is humbling, in a way. Yes, even the “special” people can learn how to use Canva and Zoom.

I’m not sure there’s a point to this reflection other than this: life can’t be neatly controlled. We may think we know what we are signing up for when we move to a certain part of the country, or take a particular job, or give birth to a child, but we don’t. We may think we know how we’ll react to a situation, how it will shape us, but we don’t. We can only weather it in real time. This can be terrifying for planners like me who want to map it all out in advance. But there is a greater gift on the other side of our perceived control. It is the gift of trust that says, “I don’t know where this is headed or even how I will handle it—but I trust You are with me.”

My prayer journals for years were filled with petitions like, “Show me what You want, show me Your will for me.” I still pray this way often. But I’ve noticed more prayers in the last few years that ask, “Help me to trust You, help me to be faithful.” It’s a slight shift of emphasis from wanting an actionable to wanting acceptance—acceptance that even if I don’t know what to do, or what God is doing (!)—that He is trustworthy in it and will guide me through it.

I don’t know what this weekend, or this month, or this year will bring. Neither do you. But I do know that we can trust Him. At least, trust is a risk I’m choosing.

On the note of this book…

One unexpected joy I had this month was opening my box of author copies with my kids, who were out of school on a snow day. I wasn’t planning to include them in this experience (or at least not the video) but my 7 year-old, a born performer, grabbed my phone and wrote himself into the script in the most hilarious way. You’ll need sound on to hear his commentary. [Note: also unexpected, my bunny slippers making it into the video.]

If you want to engage the book yourself before February 17, here are a few options:

• join my launch team for an author conversation on Zoom next Friday, Jan 31 at 12p ET (register here for 30 minutes with me about what/why/who this book is for, and to discuss questions like “what do hope and grief have to do with the eucharist?” And “what do Anglicans, Baptists, and Catholics exactly agree on about the Lord’s Supper?”)

• listen to a sample of the audiobook, from the prologue, read by me!

• Check out this early-release podcast interview with Joshua Johnson of Shifting Culture (it will be live wherever you get podcasts on Feb 17; this is an mp3)

• Read the first chapter online or preorder a copy of the whole thing!

If you’re new to this Substack and still aren’t sure what exactly I’m referring to when I say “this book,” here’s a little blurb about it from one of my endorsers:

If you made it this far, thanks for reading. And if you live in the path of Fern, please don’t feel silly stocking up on flashlights, candles, ice melt, and firewood. Life can only be weathered, but it doesn’t hurt to prepare.

Hannah+

Though my own physical stature does not reflect it, I inherited my dad’s “big” genes. And like the rest of us, I live in a world that equates value with scale: How big is your house? (Or, in ministry circles, How big is your church/How many books have you sold?) Moms ask each other, How many tasks do you accomplish in a week/how many Christmas presents do you buy for your kids?

It’s easy to criticize when we state it so bluntly, but the reality is that we’ve all been taught to believe that bigger is better. Consciously or not, we privilege those people or places that represent “more”—more money, more influence, more options. It’s one reason rural populations have tended to be overlooked in American politics—because who cares about those randos in small towns?

I’ve started thinking more about this since moving to one of those small towns, where I currently serve a small church. Here in the mountains, away from the economic and political epicenter of American society, I’ve been learning about life from a different angle. I am not sure I understand it yet, but I am beginning to be attracted to it. I’m beginning to see what smallness has to offer us. And as Christmas approaches and we’re thinking about how the all-powerful, transcendent God chose to become a tiny baby, born to a poor woman in a small town, I wonder: what if bigger isn’t always better? What if there’s something to learn from the God who made himself small?

Of course, it would be an overcorrection to assume that smaller is better instead. The contained, incarnate God still also looms large over the cosmos. But there is a gift, I am beginning to believe, in receiving smallness, whether we find it where we live, or in the limits of our bodies, or in the scope of our daily work. What seems insignificant or maybe even invisible to our eyes is perhaps an invitation to see differently: if we let it, small can become another word for sacred.

Now, for a book update…

In (less than!) two months, my book will be in the world. It’s a personal account of Christian hope as we taste it in the Lord’s Supper. It is both a “big” work of love and prayer on my part (and my prayer team, and my editor, and my friends who read early drafts) as well as a “small” contribution to the church. I am truly so excited to share it with readers who are looking for an exploration of hope amid unmet longings, or a deeper understanding of the eucharist, or both — and I would love your help:

Will you join my launch team? This is a group of volunteers who get early access to the book (in January) so that they can be ready to write a review when the book comes out in February. They are also people who are willing to pre-order a copy of the book now— though this is not a requirement to join the team, pre-orders tell the internet to show the book to more potential readers. So, please consider joining the team if you would like to:

• read the book in early 2026

• review the book on Amazon/Goodreads (eg. “5 stars! This book was helpful”)

• recommend the book to others either online or in real life

This will be, purposefully, a “small” launch team in the sense that I am not going to plan lots of extra activities/discussions for you to engage with. You can expect a few email reminders from me and the chance to vote on whether a ZOOM call would be meaningful to you or not. So, please sign up here if you want to join, and you will get a link to read the book on New Year’s Day!

Hannah+

PS- I’ll leave you with one last picture, which my publisher created and I think so beautifully captures in a few words how unmet longings & the eucharist fit together in one book:

He and my mom came home from the doctor one morning after what I assumed was a routine check- up—if he’d been having symptoms of some unseen illness, I didn’t know it—and they corralled us all into their bedroom to “talk.” This was unusual, but my dad often had a grandiose way about him, so we complied without too much confusion.

Their bedroom wasn’t large. I’m not sure why they chose to crowd six children into this space for our life-altering conversation. Maybe it was the place in our house with fewest distractions. No toys, no snacks in eyesight. Maybe their room represented their own safe place. Its central feature was two large windows on the far side of the bed that bathed the ancient wood floors in sunlight. That’s what I remember most from our conversation. Not the words exchanged, not my siblings’ reactions to the news; just the shimmering white light pouring over my dad’s enormous frame as he spoke.

He said, “Today we found out that Daddy has cancer. And we have decided that whether I live or die, we want my life to glorify God.”

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In the years since this moment, I’ve wrestled with how to articulate its impact on me. I don’t believe that God glibly kills people—that he removes fathers, mothers, friends, spouses—to teach us a lesson or to “get glory.” I also know that my father didn’t just accept his cancer diagnosis like a death sentence. During the four years of his illness he fought, literally, for dear life.

But the words he spoke over us at the beginning of this journey were like a prophecy: They invited me into a truth I will never fully understand. They introduced me to the mystery that a life yielded to God is a glorious life, regardless of outcomes.

This mystery does not fit neatly into our paradigms.

Religious or not, we all have a script in mind for the story of our lives. We expect, or at least we hope, that circumstances will work out in our favor. Some struggle is permissible as long as there’s a happy ending. My young sons, who’ve been catechized by Disney and other kid-friendly films, reassure each other during tense moments on family movie night: “The good guys are going to win.” But what happens when they don’t? How do we find equilibrium when our personal narratives take an unexpected turn and deprive us of the resolution we crave?

These questions are especially troubling for Christians, who believe in a God that is both powerful and good. When God allows tragedies to occur, people of faith are rightly scandalized. Our oldest prayer book, the Psalms, is full of the question why? Sometimes, it is the only honest word of faith we can muster.

This is from chapter 1 of my book. Read the rest of the chapter here!

If you made it this far, thank you for reading the first 500 words of my story. I am excited to share the rest of it with you in February. If you are willing to preorder a copy here, it will help more potential readers find it (because Amazon’s algorithm is snarky like that).

If you want to read a little bit from chapter 3 (which is about embodiment and in which I confess some things about my cooking skills), please visit Amanda Held Opelt’s Substack on Thanksgiving weekend—she will be sharing an excerpt there. While you’re at it, you should subscribe to her newsletter because her writing is thoughtful, beautiful, nuanced, and prayerful. She is among my favorite writers out there!

That’s all for today, but I did sneak an extra book-ish thing in the PS section. More info on that next month!

Hannah+

PS- If you’re curious…
Here’s some other stuff I’ve been working on:

-Figuring out a book launch team! If you know what this is, please join me by signing up here (I’m supposed to try to get a good group of people to help read, review & recommend the book). If you’re confused, I’ll say more about it in December’s letter

-Thinking about the influence of saints v. celebrities. I wrote this for All Saints Day (Nov. 1) but also in honor of my grandfather who is nearing the end of his life.

The brilliant people at IVP have encouraged me to share more regularly with you all over the next few months so that you, my “first” audience, can hear first about what is happening with my book in real time (and yes, things are happening! After a long, luxurious trip to the editing parlor, my book is now starting to show its face around town and will be available in 3D on February 17!) There are ways you can help me between now and then, and there are some things I am excited to share with you as readers.

So, I will be writing here monthly for the next 6 months (and maybe beyond, we’ll see). Here’s what you can expect:

• First, a short reflection on what I’m learning (usually 500 words or less)

• Then, an update(ish) on book related matters.

• Lastly and if applicable, a “PS” section of other things I’ve written/said if you are interested in other topics.

If you signed up for this newsletter because it was quarterly, I see you and I hope you will forgive me! And either way let me know come February whether the monthly rhythm works for you or not.

Now, onto the stuff.

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Over the last months, I’ve noticed that ministry has gotten both “bigger” and “smaller” for me. Writing a book has connected me with more people than I typically would interact with and in more places around the country. And serving at our local church has connected me with smaller and younger groups of people than I have experience with in a church setting. Yes, I have young kids at home, but at church I have begun leading our youth group and am getting to know tweens and teens better than I have before.

Some days I am writing articles for national outlets, other days I am playing Uno with a handful of 6^th graders from my church. Some days I’m doing podcast interviews with strangers, other days I am hanging out with toddlers in our Sunday nursery. It is an interesting mix.

I haven’t quite decided what I think about it all yet, other than I believe it is good for me. It would be easy to “minister” to a bunch of disembodied people on the internet and forget what they are like in real life. It would be easy to think that “the real work” happens out there in the abstract world of other people and not right here in the actual world of my kids and neighbors. It would be easy to chase something else, somewhere else, and miss the gift I’ve been given.

Even if we aren’t in work that requires attention beyond our neighborhoods, we all live in a world that demands it. We all read the news, or at least the memes. We all know about big and important and painful stuff happening in other places and countries. And it really matters. But so does the person who lives next door. And here’s what I’m learning: maybe, the way I treat the person next door actually has some kind of impact on those national and international issues that I just can’t see or predict. Maybe the local and the global aren’t as disconnected as the internet wants me to think.

I got really interested in this dynamic tension when I studied the Old Testament book of Ruth for a sermon* a few weeks ago. In the time of the Judges (aka Israel’s dark ages), God addressed national dysfunction through the life of a poor, elderly old widow. Israel’s future hope was secured not through political campaigns (although those would come) or public debates (plenty of those later too) but through the quiet faithfulness of a daughter-in-law and a local farmer. Ruth stayed with Naomi and found a way to feed her. Boaz was generous to a hungry sojourner who showed up on his property. The result was the restoration of King David’s line and the promise of Israel’s future. God used one family, doing ordinary family things, to bring hope to a nation.

I guess my point is, we shouldn’t stop caring about what’s going on out there. But we shouldn’t stop caring about what’s going on right here either. We do the work God has given us to do, and we let him decide the way it all fits together.

So about this book…

Time is a funny thing for an author. It crawls in silence while you write, then it’s hurry up and wait while it’s edited, then it’s suddenly six months out and you’re supposed to do stuff NOW to help people find it eventually. Here’s what some of things are (and how you can participate if you want!)

• Now, you can pre-order or share the link with friends (or in your newsletters, or whatever). Pre-orders really help, especially new authors. Thank you to everyone who has done this!

• In November, you can read some early excepts here and in another place (excited to share more next month!)

• In December, you can let me know if you’re willing to join my launch team, which is a group of early readers/reviewers who help spread the word about the book around the release date.

• And any time between now and then, if you have a church group or a podcast or a book club or an idea for me about where/how to share this message with others, I would love to hear from you!

With gratitude,
Hannah+

PS- if you’re curious…
Here are a few other places I’ve shared recently:

• A podcast with Dru Johnson of The Biblical Mind about how the eucharist forms us, and how God can use the sacraments to help heal trauma.

• an article at The Holy Post about prayer as more than a copout for the church in times of political turmoil, and one in my local newspaper about remembrance & healing one year after Hurricane Helene.

• *The sermon I preached on Ruth (as mentioned above)

When I was a kid, my friends’ parents nicknamed me “Hannah of Green Gables” because I wanted everything to have a beautiful name or a haunting story. (I did not mind being teased like this. In fact, it inspired me to grow my vocabulary and thus further entertain those adults who thought me odd.)

In second grade, I wrote my first full-length story about a unicorn made of snow who came to life at night and took her creator on rides through the frigid sky. (Her name was Snow Star and I remember her so well.) Below I stand in buck-toothed glory at the Cobb County Writing Fair where Snow Star won a prestigious award— a gilded paper certificate and a tiny plastic trophy.

In high school, my writing took a more serious turn. It became a way of processing things I really didn’t have words for at first—traumatic experiences that rocked my family and my faith but that simultaneously forged it. Over time, I learned to pray on paper and witnessed how God can turn agony into art.

As a priest, words are now part of my vocation. And in sharing them with others through the years, I’ve realized that the most powerful Word ever spoken was enfleshed. God’s greatest truth is not an abstraction, but a story—a person who lived and lives among us. Which means I can’t tell you what I think is true without telling you about Jesus, and how he has changed my life. I can’t tell you what I think is true without telling you my story.

This is why I’m so excited to share my first book with you. Feasting On Hope: How God Sets a Table in the Wilderness recounts my own journey through disorientation and grief and into a fuller faith. In it, I ask the question that followed me through my teen years: what does hope look like amid unanswered prayers and unmet longing? Christianity speaks of healing and renewal. But most Christians still live with unmet longings and seemingly unresolvable pain. Grief and loss. Family brokenness. Chronic illness. Traumatic memories. How do we integrate these realities with the promise of new creation?

For me, the answer has come at the Communion Table. In the middle of our unresolved stories, we are nourished by Christ. In the bread and wine, we taste resurrection (Jesus is raised!) even as we grow hungrier for the renewal of all things (Jesus will return and finish His work!). Feasting On Hope looks at the gospel through the lens of the Lord’s Supper and proposes that Christian hope is both a feast and a foretaste. I might have heard this in a classroom or sermon as a child. But the tangible, repeatable practice of the Lord’s Supper is what helped my body to begin to believe it.

My friend Esau McCaulley, who was kind enough to write the book’s foreword, described it as “part memoir, part reflection on…the eucharist, part theodicy, and so much more besides.” My team at InterVarsity Press designed this beautiful cover for it:

I did not write this book to try to get rich (writers everywhere are laughing along with me!) or to win a prestigious award (Thanks to Snow Star I can rest on my laurels). I wrote this book to encourage others who might be looking for hope, or for a deeper experience of Christian faith in the “wilderness” of life as we now know it. I’d love for it to reach as wide an audience as possible.

Here is something I’ve learned in my journey as a new author: preorders make a big difference in a book’s chance of finding readers. If you think you might eventually buy a copy of this book to read or gift to a friend, would you please consider placing your order now? It releases on February 17 next year (just in time for Lent!) and if you order before then, your copy will arrive on release day.

As a first-time author, I could also use your help spreading the word about this book. You can mention it/share the Amazon link on social media, ask your pastor or small group leader to consider using it for a book study or sermon series, or ask me to come talk to your church/school/organization about it. You can also pray for me, and for this book to find whatever readers God intends for it. Already I’ve been blown away by His providence in getting this story into my life and into the world. Already I am so honored to share this small part of it with you.

PS- In the coming months I’ll be sending periodic updates about the book here. If you aren’t already subscribed but would like to hear from me every couple months, sign up below!

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In Him,
Hannah+
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If you’re curious…

I shared a little bit of the book’s content with my new friends on their new podcast. If you like it, or any of the episodes you find there, give them a review— they would love to hear your feedback!

The word Lent comes from a Germanic word that means long. Technically this has more to do with the lengthening of days as the season changes (side note: add Daylight Savings to my list of springtime gripes) but I often think of its unintended double meaning. The in-between seasons of our lives are almost always longer than we want them to be.

Lent is purposeful, important, formative. We fast or give alms or at the very least think more about Jesus’ death than we might otherwise during the year. But we are doing these things while the promise of Easter whispers at us in the weather. With our senses, we anticipate the joy of resurrection. Through our penitence, we remember the agony of the cross. If I’m honest, Lent is for me at times an exercise in cognitive dissonance.

Last night at my house we celebrated St. Patrick’s Day with cupcakes and a cartoon film about Patrick’s life. I was struck by how long he had to wait from the first time he cried out to God for rescue from slavery to the day of his escape. At one point in the movie, he sits in the muddy rain and asks, “Why me?” Of course, we know the answer. We who’ve heard how the story ends know that these long years in isolation—where Patrick learned to pray and to love Ireland— were part of his formation as a Christian and as a future missionary. But in real time it must have been very confusing.

In my own formation, there are a handful of areas where I can tell that God is at work, but I am confused by the slowness. Or rather, I’m confused when things that I thought were “healed” or behind me reappear, like cold rain after a few warm days. My faith, my ability to forgive, my fragile trust in God’s goodness are like tiny buds that get frost-bitten from time to time. What I think I’m learning in this is to recognize time as one of God’s tools—to not resent the long, slow work of grace but to embrace it as the only path forward.

Right now, I’m working toward a book launch that is still in the distant future. It’s so far away that I can’t even tell you the date yet (!) but it’s also close enough that I have work to do on it. Work that is exciting to me but remains, for now, quiet and preparatory. One day I’ll get to share more of that with you. Until then, I know God is wasting none of this quiet spring with me. In the cognitive dissonance of working on a book that remains hidden, I am learning to be less subject to the frequent changes in weather and more solidly rooted in the soil of His sovereignty. I don’t have to understand it all. I just need to remember that He is trustworthy.

Hannah+
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If you’re curious…
Here are some things I have been up to the last few months:

-A really beautiful podcast conversation about incarnational ministry (and yep, the eucharist) with new friends at Global Trellis, who support cross-cultural workers.

-An article in Christianity Today about how my parents’ witness (in life and death) have shaped my understanding of love.

-An appearance as the “bonus” (read: junior) Hannah on The Esau McCaulley podcast for a discussion about internet rage. (There is one exciting book update in the last 5 minutes of this one!)

By hate, I mean I get really sad about saying goodbye. When our summer babysitter went back to college this August, I embarrassed myself by crying on her last day at our house. When I finished my book manuscript in September, I embarrassed nobody because I cried in secret behind my laptop after typing my last sentence. Whenever a calendar year draws to a close, I feel sad about saying “goodbye” to another year that we’ll never get back.

But I also love endings, because I am an enneagram 4 and I can out-nostalgia almost anyone. Give me some good (or bad) memories and I will nurse them like sick children. I cherish the week between Christmas and New Year’s because I usually make a family photo album to chronicle the year’s big events. I love remembering and “treasuring” the stories that matter to me.

This year, 2024’s end dovetails with the end of our first year in the mountains. And here’s the thing: while I definitively do *not* feel sad about saying goodbye to a season of transition, I do cherish this year’s hard-won healing and open heartedness. I treasure the memories of those first people who reached out to me and treated me like a friend. I am grateful for a new normal, and for the (newly) long-distance friends who have held onto me in a new home. This year has been a whirlwind of transition, grief, growth, and grace— and at the end of it, what I mostly feel is gratitude.

For Christians who observe the church calendar, the end of each year is also a beginning: during Advent, we look back on our lives so that we can better look forward to the light that is coming into the world. In this way, Advent teaches us something about the pattern of Christian life. Because of Jesus, what feels like the end of one thing is actually the seed of its new beginning. Death gives way to resurrection. Sin gives way to holiness. Sorrow gives way to joy.

I think because of this, Christians are often tempted to skip over the pain of goodbye entirely by slapping some Christian good news on it. “Don’t worry, Uncle Bob won’t stay dead! Don’t be sad about your past sins, Jesus will make something beautiful of them! Don’t think too hard about the person who hurt you, just forgive!” There’s some wisdom in each of these sentiments, but they also sell us short by rushing the God-ordained purpose of time. If we don’t mine our losses, we won’t understand the gains they yield. If we don’t sow our tears, we won’t reap as great a harvest. (Ps. 126:5)

One day, of course, there won’t be any more goodbyes. But we’ll still have the memory of them. Our resurrected bodies, like Jesus’, will bear scars. Redemption doesn’t erase history; it transfigures it. This means that even in the future, our past will be with us— only, it will be healed. By grace, we get to practice that healing now. We look back and forward at the same time, practicing a kind of present-orientation that, as James K. A. Smith put it, “is pregnant with both memory and anticipation.” This doesn’t take the sting out of goodbye, but it does fill it with hope. And that’s something to cherish in itself.

Hannah+
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If you’re curious…
Here are some other things I’ve been working on the last few months:

-In October, I joined Dr. Doug Sweeney on the Beeson Divinity School podcast to talk about ministry, seasons of life, being a woman in ministry, etc.*

-In November, I was invited to present some material from my book for the first time(!)* at a church in Charleston.

-At our church, I preached about Christ the (Crucified) King and wrote about some easy ways to practice Advent.

*NB: rookie perspectives and presentations here!

PS- If you’re still looking for a last minute holiday gift, consider supporting some Western NC businesses!

This is probably a product of our modern, western imaginations: from childhood, we’re taught that life is a series of personal choices and that we get to “decide” things like what we want to be when we grow up, where we will live, whether and who we will marry, etc. And of course there’s truth to this. As human beings, we have agency and can act upon the world. We aren’t helpless victims of circumstance; we do get to make choices.

But I think the extent to which we believe we control our lives is an illusion. It’s an illusion we can usually sustain when circumstances unfold as we expect. But occasionally, a diagnosis comes or a job disappears or a hurricane hits—and we realize how little control we had all along.

I am so very proud of myself for finishing and submitting my book manuscript this past month. (Woo hoo!) Every chapter went more or less “according to plan” except the last one, in which I found myself sharing the story of how I thought (and hoped) my home for the next twenty years would be in a certain place, and how that ended up not being the case. And I submitted that story to my editor in the chaos of my new home’s post-Helene emergency. Sending in my book, with this content and under these circumstances, reminded me: as much as we imagine the future, as hard as we might try to craft it, we really are powerless over it.

I realize this might sound kind of nihilistic. Or perhaps self-pitying. If we can’t direct our lives or protect desired outcomes, what’s the point of making plans or taking risks or getting emotionally entangled? But for me at least, this realization is freeing: We are not in control, so we can stop trying to be. We can release our feeble grip on outcomes and choose to focus instead on obedience. After all, God has not asked us to be responsible for the future. He has only ever called us to be faithful.

This doesn’t mean that our future is irrelevant or even uncertain, however. In the short-term, we should expect the unexpected, including a fair amount of heartache. We should learn to hold our loves loosely because we aren’t sovereign over them and we can’t ultimately keep them from destruction or decay. We can’t stop time, death, others’ choices, or even rainwater from hurting us and the people we love.

But in the long-term, our future is secure. In God’s hands, our stories and our dreams will be gathered up and put together in a way we could never accomplish in our own power. This is the heart of Christian hope: that one day, everything we’ve loved but have been powerless to save will be renewed. One day, we will live in a city with foundations that will never be lost in a mudslide. We will be Home and will never have to leave. And this will be His doing, not ours.

Until then, I think the call is to keep making plans and taking risks and getting entangled— to keep loving our homes and writing our books and raising our kids and baking our bread, as an offering to God. We put ourselves to stories that we aren’t sovereign over as a form of entrustment: we may not hold the future, but we trust that He is holding us.

Hannah+

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If you’re curious…
Here are some other things I’ve been thinking about the last few months.

-At CT, I wrote about denominational angst (very inside baseball for clergy & leader types) and my experience in Western NC after Hurricane Helene.

-At a couple churches, I preached on some reasons why I’m crazy about the Eucharist and why I’m writing a book about it (at least, this is the 20-minute version. There’s much more to say!)

-In anticipation of the holiday season, and to support small businesses impacted by flooding, I am planning to buy gifts for people from some shops in my city. Please join me by shopping online!

My plan was simple. I was going to get a dog, buy an RV, and drive around the country painting landscapes. Sort of like Travels with Charley 2.0. It sounded so dreamy. Then I realized I’m an extrovert. And that traveling the country in an RV meant I’d have to drive one.

The artistic work I’m doing now bears some resemblance to this dream. Thankfully it does not involve operating large vehicles. But writing a book does require a lot of alone time, which has challenged me. I am writing this story because I want to share it with people. But right now, I’m spending months working on it in solitude.

What I’m beginning to realize is that a writing life is a hidden life. Yes, the finished product of writing is often public—but the finished product represents thousands of unseen hours; tedious, slow, sometimes boring days full of research and revision and prayer, on repeat.  

Writing isn’t the only work that is hidden. When I’m not focusing on my book, I’m making lunches or folding laundry or refereeing arguments or telling Knock-Knock jokes. Most days, parenting doesn’t feel hidden as much as it feels invisible. And yet, it’s in these years of obscurity that my children are being formed.

In my book research, one writer who has captivated me is Henri Nouwen. A prolific theologian, Nouwen taught at Notre Dame, Harvard and Yale before leaving academia to pastor a community of people with intellectual disabilities. He left his prestigious titles behind and embraced a largely unseen ministry among people who couldn’t care less about his degrees. From there, he wrote the books that have so blessed and nourished me in the last few months. His hidden work of pastoring and writing in obscurity is still bearing much fruit.

In a way, it doesn’t matter what our job description is. Whether we are writers or parents or teachers or mechanics, the richest content of our lives is largely unseen. Who we really are, and are becoming, is hidden—even from ourselves.

The Christian call, I think, is to embrace this. It is to give ourselves wholeheartedly to whatever work God has given us to do, seen or unseen, and to entrust its meaning and measurement to him. For, as Paul tells us in his letter to the Colossians, “our lives are hidden with Christ.” One day, when he appears, we will too—and we will see the beauty that he has wrought.

In the meantime, then, obscurity is nothing to fear. It’s where the treasure of the kingdom lies waiting for us. At least, I’m beginning to believe this.

Prayerfully,
Hannah+

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PS- If you’re curious…
…Here are some other things I’ve been thinking about the last few months.

- In May, I preached about how Pentecost can heal our relationship with power in the church.  

-While writing a chapter on scarcity in my book, I came across this article by Old Testament scholar Walter Bruggeman. I hope it inspires you as much as it inspired me!