This summer offering is dedicated to my Gran who entered eternity on May 17th, 2023. She believed that angels gathered here—because of her, so do I.
photo by Ryan Parker via Unsplash
The Hill
In the humidity and heat during the summer of 2005, I was on a tour of, what was then, a one-hundred eighty seven year old historic dilapidated farmhouse in my hometown. I can’t remember all of the details about the tour, but of the people who were with me, I remember my Gran being there and a man who was an African American spiritualist (who was either leading the tour or who simply had a lot to say whilst on the tour).
I was twelve years old and when we got to the top of the rickety steps, something felt very strange and I had a discernible unsettledness in my spirit, a shift inside of me that was felt in a place much deeper than the mere physicality of what the heat may have been contributing to my experience in an un-air conditioned house that day. I needed to get back down those steps.
That was one of the first times this unsettledness overtook me, but it would be nearly another decade, and after having more of these experiences, before I would fully understand the weight of what had happened on that summer day in 2005 (more on that later).
I still remember the musty and mildewy smell of the nearly two-hundred year old farmhouse as I walked its creaky floors through rooms and hallways of peeling wallpaper and deteriorating structures. Colonel William Brown built the farmhouse in the early 1800’s and it was later purchased by a W.T. Handy in the 1900’s.
Growing up, this farmhouse was known as the Handy farmhouse and for most of my life it sat on top of a beautiful hill that overlooks our small rural historic town. I was an enthusiastic member of my fifth grade history club and have long been fascinated with the history of place. It comes as no surprise that I took every opportunity I had in my girlhood to tour the farmhouse alongside my great aunt and uncle, who were involved in the preservation of the historic farmhouse, as well as my late grandmother (Gran) who had a very personal history with the Handy farmhouse and the hill on which it sat.
Part of Our Story
In the fourth grade, the city started plans to convert the farmland into a community recreational park with mile long walking trails and a playground, additions still being added to this day. It has been a beautiful place for our community to gather. I remember my fourth grade teacher passing around a survey with a poll on what the community park should be named, one of the options being The Handy Farm Park. Though that name did not win, I was quite passionate that it should have and have never, to this day, stopped calling it the Handy Farm.
Names and places matter—especially when they are part of our story.
My Gran grew up on this hill in a little house near the big farmhouse. When I was growing up, she would tell me stories about her childhood, like the little place at the bottom of the hill where she and her sister (the great aunt I mentioned being involved in the preservation of the Handy farmhouse) would wait for the bus when it rained. As I got older, she began to give me glimpses into the memories that carried darkness with them and the pain and family dysfunction that shaped her childhood on that big hill.
Her story is part of my own story, but not all of the pieces are mine to share. When she passed from her earthly life into eternity, she took all of the pieces that were entrusted to her, the pain and the healing, and found them finally safe and secure in the presence of her Savior, leaving behind only the pieces of her story that have been entrusted to us.
side view of the porch on the Handy farmhouse
Pushing Back the Darkness
My Gran had the spiritual gift of discerning the spirits (1 Corinthians 12:10), both demonic and divine. It was not uncommon for her to enter a building and know that there were, in her words, “creepers” (demons) there. She anointed and prayed over many places, often in homes, but was even secretly asked by our local school administration (after the allowance of people coming in the school to pray was stopped), alongside a few other prayer warriors, to pray inside the school after a period of intense chaos with the students.
She saw the darkness. She felt the darkness. But she carried the light, scattering the spirits with the authority and power given to her by Christ.
I was in middle school when she anointed both of the soles of her shoes with oil and walked around that big hill she grew up on, full of painful memories, and claimed, with every step, healing and victory over painful strongholds and trauma. Having heard these stories of God’s faithfulness in my Gran’s life and knowing the redemption and peace that transformed this big hill, my husband chose to propose to me in this place—longing to start our story on the very ground where redemption sang out.
A Piece Entrusted to Me
You may be wondering at this point how that hot summer day in 2005 fits into this story. This is one of the pieces that has been entrusted to me, a piece she’s left behind for me to tell, a part of the story that is still unfolding through me.
As I grew up, I would go on to have very similar experiences like the one I had at the top of the stairs at the Handy farmhouse—an urgent unsettledness in my spirit overtaking me in certain places. By the time I was in high school, I began to recognize these experiences for what they were—discernment of the spirits.
In college, my husband and I would go on to have a really intense experience with the darkness in one of the first places that we lived. It got so bad one night that we left in the middle of the night. One of the first people we called was my Gran. We asked her to come and pray over and anoint the cabin. She had us leave and didn’t want us to share anything specific with her so that she could be fully aware of what the Holy Spirit would reveal to her and not be distracted by preconceived notions.
When we spoke with her after she was done, she told us it was one of the darkest places that she had prayed over and the places in the cabin that felt the “heaviest” were some of the same exact places where we experienced that heaviness, too.
The Top of the Stairs
It wasn’t long after that experience in the cabin when she and I were having a long conversation in my car about this spiritual gift that we shared. She told me about several of her own experiences in her lifetime of stewarding this spiritual gift and then told me something she had never told me before.
She took me back to that hot summer day in 2005 when I was twelve years old. In the small line of people going up those stairs, I was situated right between her and the man who was an African American spiritualist who was a perfect stranger to us both. She recalled how I instantly began to feel “off” when we stopped at the top of the stairs. In my uneasiness, I was oblivious to the fact that the man in front of me discreetly turned around, looked directly at my Gran, and said to her,
“She has it too doesn’t she?”.
Chills ran down her spine and she knew exactly the “it” he was referring to—discernment of the spirits.
Two strangers, having never had a conversation in their life, and somehow he knew that she—and I (though it wasn’t fully realized by me at that point)—shared in this divine assignment.
Stewarding Our Spiritual Inheritance
Spiritual gifts are not genetic, but they are woven into the fabric of our spiritual DNA—an inheritance that is passed down among generational lines.
In 2 Chronicles 16:7, there is an account of a seer (prophet in the OT) named Hanani who goes to Asa, the king of Judah, and prophesies judgement on the nation for their refusal to rely on the Lord.
Hanani had a son named Jehu, who became a seer, following in his father’s footsteps. In 2 Chronicles 19: 1-4, Jehu confronts King Jehoshaphat with this word from the Lord:
“Should you help the wicked and love those who hate the Lord and so bring wrath on yourself from the Lord? But there is some good for you, for you have removed the Asheroth from the land and you have set your heart to seek God.”
Because Hanani stewarded his spiritual gift, Jehu chose to walk a path that was laid before him, learning to steward this spiritual gift in his own generation. Because of this spiritual stewardship, passed down from father to son, King Jehoshaphat would go on to lead the nation in a great revival, bringing the people back to devotion to the Lord.
“So Jehoshaphat lived in Jerusalem and went out again among the people from Beersheba to the hill country of Ephraim and brought them back to the Lord, the God of their fathers.” 2 Chron. 19:4
Stewarding our spiritual inheritance is an act of obedience—a choice to live out a divine assignment that God chooses to fulfill through generational lines.
In my flesh, I am naturally a fearful creature. Carrying the gift of discerning the spirits has felt heavy at times—I’d honestly rather be oblivious to the darkness than have to face it head on.
Throughout the years of carrying this gift, a certain thought has clung tightly as I’ve navigated spiritually tense situations,
“When Gran leaves this earth, she will not be here to anoint this place or that…I will have to enter this spiritual battle in new ways”.
On the afternoon of May 5th this past spring, an urgency, prompted by the Holy Spirit, began to well up inside of me—seemingly out of nowhere. I needed to anoint our home. But I didn’t just need to anoint it, I knew in my spirit that I was being called to anoint it in honor of the spiritual inheritance that Gran had been walking in for so long. It was a call to begin stewarding my spiritual gift in new ways.
Not two weeks later, my Gran transitioned into eternity very unexpectedly.
My Gran stewarded her gifts well. I’ve seen them stewarded through the generational lines—through the lives of my mother and sisters.
It is because of her obedience to the gifts she was given—especially that of discerning the spirits—that I, too, am learning to be unafraid of this gift that has been offered to me.
Our work, our divine assignments, are often revealed from generation to generation in the lives of those who have the courage to walk the paths that have been bravely paved for us—no matter how broken—and continue the work of redemption—smoothing the way and stewarding the pieces of the story that our ours for the generations that will soon follow.
The Scent of Water
Despite efforts to preserve the historic Handy farmhouse, the great house on the hill was finally demolished sometime after 2016, though I can’t remember exactly when. I’ve walked its paths for many miles and I always feel the presence of my Creator on that hill—so did my Gran.
My mom (Gran’s daughter) recently shared a story with me about a tree with a swing that used to sit on top of the hill by the big farmhouse. My Gran used to swing there as a little girl and it was one of the places she remembered first feeling the love and presence of her Maker.
That tree was cut down.
I recently finished reading The Scent of Water by Elizabeth Goudge. It has offered me pause as I’ve continued to reflect and process the death of my Gran. Goudge crafts a masterful fictitious novel that centers around Job 14:7-9,
“For there is hope for a tree, When it is cut down, that it will sprout again, And its shoots will not fail. Though its roots grow old in the ground And its stump dies in the dry soil, At the scent of water it will flourish And put forth sprigs like a plant.
“What is the scent of water?”, Goudge writes.
“It is renewal. The goodness of God coming down like dew.”
The house, the tree, and the swing are no longer on that hill, but the scent of water has revived what the darkness tried to suffocate.
I belong to a flourishing tree, whose roots are tangled in the pain and healing of generations that have come before me. I am a sprig who has been nourished by the goodness of God, by the dew first felt on the feet of the little girl who walked through the grass on the great big hill.
I miss you, Gran. I’ll keep learning to push back the darkness, unafraid of this gift that I’ve inherited…
…after all, angels still gather here.
This angel hanging was on display in my Gran’s house since I was a little girl, following her to her apartment after my grandad passed away in 2013. It hangs in my own house now and is a constant reminder of the inheritance in which I stand.
Thanks for reading Cadence & Canticle— I’m so glad you stopped by. May you leave this space blessed and heartened as you return to the soil and stewardship of your life. I’d love for you to join this community of fellow pilgrim-souls!
This was beautiful, sweet friend. Thank you so much for sharing this testimony. I, too, have the gift of discerning + seeing, and reading your words felt like being wrapped up in a blanket-- and I didn’t even realize that I was cold. The heaviness + loneliness that comes with these spiritual gifts are so often heavy, but Abba places the right people, and words, in our lives just when we need them.