Hope.


Stupid hope.

“He rescued me from my strong enemy and from those who hated me, for they were too mighty for me.” Psalm 18:17


Hope is not the blanket I pull over my head like a child would in a storm to feel safe. Hope is like the burning antiseptic applied to a wound. The advent season is a mix of old wounds and new hopes. The advent season always feels like a landmine of sadness and joy.


A new word each week. I love words, almost all words. Then the word hope is spoken, and everything seems to pause, and I can feel the breath in-between waiting to exhale. What will the word mean today? What memories will course through my brain? What will the walk, run, crawl through December bring this year? I do not doubt who my hope is in. I doubt hope.


It reminds me of the flavor of an orange rind, not the orange flesh that is sweet and refreshing but the rind that leaves behind a bitter taste that haunts your mouth. I do not find hope to be a place of rest. I do know hope is a place of truth but just because something is true doesn’t mean we always believe in its ability. Luke 1:49-50 says “for he who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is his name. And his mercy is for those who fear him from generation to generation.” There is no other option but to trust to Him and that He stands in for me. I don’t understand hope, but I do trust that He is the perfect hope and that He never needs me to understand, I can simply rest in Him and He will handle the hope. He protected me and continues that protection through the generations. He placed an abundance of hope into the ones I love greatly and lifted their eyes to see it. He is mighty enough to be that perfect hope.

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