picnic tables.

If you think back on the years you’ve lived, there are certain inanimate objects that have vividly soaked up your experiences. For me, objects have always had a way of coming to life in my memory, whether that be buildings or presents or courts or sweatshirts or pictures. 

These mere things hold far more sentimentality than one could imagine. It’s my bedroom floor at home where I grieved the loss of my friend's mom, cried tears over situations that cut me deeply, fought with Jesus through the struggles of depression, and saw the victory of the cross in my life so clearly. The carpet somehow still has the aroma of salty tears to me. It’s my bed at home and at school in which I have written all my life’s journals, studied for every lingering test or exam, did every tedious math problem, dreamed every bizarre dream, and spent the majority of sweet time with my Savior. It’s my bed sheets, where I write scripture so that even in my sleep truth surrounds me. It’s the walls of my room, which have seen the very deepest crevices of my hardships—they’ve absorbed my anxiety attacks, my tantrums, my middle school drama, my most joyous prayers of thanksgiving, and my most desperate cries for help to the only God who is capable of redeeming.  It’s Perimeter Church, where I was taught both scripture and academics, and also where I’ve learned to love a whole slew of 3rd-5th graders at camp the last two summers. It’s the pavilion at Perimeter, where I learned about intentionality in conversation by talking to 5th graders at lunchtime about what they’ve learned in Bible time that day/week at camp. It’s coffee that has lent an ear to the deep conversations I’ve been blessed to experience over a nice cup of joe. I could go on far past anyone’s ability to stay interested by exhausting this list of important objects in my life, but the most important thing is that objects hold meaning through memory. 

Today, the object at the forefront of my mind is a picnic table. When I gaze back into my past, I’ve had a vast amount of memorable experiences while sitting on the splintery, tarnished benches of a picnic table. Memories of me hunched over the worn tabletop completely engaged in conversation bubble up as I think about them.

In fact, the summer before my senior year of high school, one of my friends had just graduated, and the last time we hung out before she left for UGA, we went to Jones Bridge Park. That day we sat at a picnic table and talked about everything—it all came out. All of her anxieties about starting college and all of my pre-senior year woes were quite literally out on the table. We also contemplated the beauty of God’s work in our lives through vivid story telling. It was a memorable afternoon that bled into an afternoon quite similar a year down the road. One year later, that afternoon found me as a pre-college freshman who was exhausted from 8 weeks of camp and overwhelmed by the thought of starting anew in Auburn. My friend and I were back at the same table for a Tuesday night community with Camp All American. While all of our co-workers were cheerfully surrounding us playing spike ball, we discussed the depth of struggle that we had experienced that summer. I remember crying to Jenna Leigh that afternoon at the table and having a resonating feeling of hopelessness and frustration—like I had reached an impasse and God couldn’t resurrect beauty out of my circumstances. I was defeated and jaded by all that had happened that summer, and I felt as though I failed entirely in how I had handled it.

In retrospect, I am a year and a half down the road from that defeated night I spent at a picnic table in an unassuming park in Peachtree Corners, GA. I know now that God worked wonders in what he was doing with my identity, my family, and my anxiety that summer. He did what I thought would be more difficult than moving mountains, and the picnic table knows it all. It heard all of my words; it absorbed all of my tears. It stands as tangible evidence that God moves in big ways. 

My experience with picnic tables doesn’t end there. Actually, this past Sunday I had a picnic table moment. It started with take out from Fuji and a trip to the red barn in Auburn with my friends Lauren and Mary Claire. When we got there, we set up shop at the picnic table by the water. It was a beautiful night—slightly chilly, sweatshirt weather, but my company was warmer than the temperature. You see, I had been having a really rough day, or semester for that matter, and in a lot of respects they had been experiencing a lot of hardship too. But this particular Sunday I was feeling the struggle: it was in full force. I had been with other loving friends that day who were so wonderful to me, but I had decided that I needed to go take the night to myself in my room to enjoy some ever-important ‘Hannah Time’. I kid you not, as soon as I took off my shoes to hop into bed, Lauren texted me and Mary Claire to ask what we were doing that night, and all the sudden I felt the crazy desire go to be with them. So, I went. While we sat at the table, we shared stories and talked about everything from Lauren’s high school romances (which we spent most of our time on) to my love for nostalgic experiences like rolling down a hill (it makes me happy, okay?). I just remember glancing at Mary Claire and Lauren while Lauren was telling a story, and I thought to myself 'this is it. this is peace and joy. these two friends are more than a blessing. this moment is beautiful.' I wish I could explain it better to you, but the feeling I had was one of sheer contentment and thankfulness. The picnic table was experiencing my first joyful moment in a while.  These friends have a way of putting me at ease; I find tremendous joy in their presence, and God knew that some genuine, quality time with them was what I needed that night. It was definitely a night at a picnic table that I won’t forget.

Essentially, picnic tables—inanimate objects—are kept in my memory as places where I have seen God provide for me, and more often than not He did so through
relationships that were strengthened while spending time there. The objects become far less about what they actually are in my memory, and begin to serve as a sort of symbol of God's sovereign provision in my life.

In the midst of this crazy semester and season of life, I have come away with one important lesson: God protects and provides for his children. I find myself always trying to be one step ahead of God by ‘understanding’ how he is sanctifying me in the moment. I constantly tire myself, and I’ve come to realize that I need to just stop and rest in the truth of God’s provision for me. This week, he provided me with a picnic table moment. I don’t know what his provision will look like tomorrow, but I’m not guaranteed
tomorrow, so I don’t need to know. I am free to rest. I am free to believe that he will take care of me in whatever way necessary. I am free to trust that he will

bring picnic tables into life when he needs to. I serve a good God who loves me unconditionally and acts according to that love.

Further, in the book Counterfeit Gods by Tim Keller, he writes, "We learn that through all of life there runs a ground note of cosmic disappointment. You are never going to lead a wise life until you understand that.” 

See, this earth is going to disappoint. We are humans who were initially made for perfection, and this world has yet to be perfect since the fall. It won’t be perfect again until the return of Christ, either. We literally will never be satisfied to complete contentment by anything that this place has to offer, BUT God choses to bless his children with glimpses of what perfection will look like.

Accordingly, James 1:17 says, "Every good gift and every perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of lights with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change.”.

Every gift is from above. Gifts are in no way a guarantee, but a selfless blessing from our heavenly Father. What an essential truth that I forget so easily. 

So today, in the midst of struggle, uncertainty, and the unknown, I will turn my eyes and tune my ears to look and listen for the picnic tables of my life—the glowing blessings that so often go unappreciated, and I will smile relentlessly because I know that my God is in control.