“Help me understand hope.”
It was a couple of years ago. Hers were those “friendly eyes” a speaker looks for in the audience, belonging to the handful of folks who let you know the message is heard. Now she wanted to go deeper.
“I know what hope means…in my head, ” she said, “but I can’t feel it here–she placed both hands on her chest–I can’t feel it in my heart.”
She spoke of a a once-solid foundation, of significant stones shattered by setbacks, disappointments, unexpected twists in the path. She spoke of feeling lost and isolated.
“I know my real foundation is Jesus. I know I’m not supposed to rely on anything else.” Tears in eyes, hands on chest again. “But I can’t feel it here. It just feels so damned hopeless!”
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I’ve thought a good deal recently about that young woman. I’ve thought about how easy it is to talk and write about hope with sunshine and a tailwind.
I’ve thought about the struggle when seemingly foundational truths suddenly aren’t, when certain becomes uncertain and up becomes down. I’ve placed my hands on my own chest and wondered about the emptiness.
I’ve re-discovered the gap between knowing hope and not feeling hope. And I don’t like it.
I’ve had to remind myself that hope isn’t a feeling. Hope, like faith, love, courage, and other character traits, is a choice, a decision. It’s more than shallow optimism that says somehow it’ll all be okay. Because sometimes, in the short-term, it’s not all okay. Things don’t just magically work out, but that’s not hope.
Hope is a confident expectation based on faith that God keeps His promises. It’s the natural extension of Romans 8:28, a confidence that God works for good in all things–even when I can’t see or feel it.
Hope confidently anticipates a future that transcends our ability to understand it.
So there we are, you and I, when the road takes an unexpected turn. We’re left, when all else falls apart, with the choices of faith, hope, and love.
Even when we can’t feel it, let’s always choose hope. Because hope changes what’s possible.
Amen!!!