Hope is a Who

As mentioned before, I’m in the process of learning how to let go—learning what it looks like practically and emotionally. During this process, I keep running into a word I’ve breezed past so many times before. A word so ethereal it makes my brain hurt to try and put physical words around it. But with Christmas just around the corner, and the weeks of Advent flying past, there’s no avoiding the word.

Hope.

It’s another seemingly nebulous word sprinkled throughout the Bible. A word we use on a regular basis in all the wrong ways. A word our world has no idea what it really means. Much like the word love is misused for all kinds of things like pizza, travel, and ideas, hope is seen as something to grasp for, always in front of us, just out of reach, just on the other side of the rainclouds lies the hope of a rainbow. We hope for an outcome, a positive turn to current circumstances.

The world’s hope is never realized. I’m learning mine is ever present.

I am learning hope is not a thing, it is an action in response to a Who. It is not a thing to attain, but an action to take in obedience. Hope is present anywhere Jesus is present. Hope is the proof of His presence. To have Christ means to also have hope. If Christ is in me, hope is also present.(Romans 15:13, Colossians 1:27, 1 Peter 1:3)

Before Christ, the psalmists wrote of hope in the Lord. Their hope was God’s words. God’s promises to them through the law and the prophets. Hope was something they chose to do in faith, believing God to be true to His word. When you read of hope in the Old Testament, it acts as a buoy for the believers’ souls. Putting their hope in God was a choice, an act done out of love and obedience in response to a God who kept His promises. (Psalm 39:7, 42:5, 130:5, Lamentations 3:24)

Then Christ came! The long-promised Messiah born of a virgin, who fulfilled hundreds of God’s promises to His people in His lifetime. Then He died and resurrected. Conquering death, the day Jesus rose from the grave was also the day hope was born anew. Before that point in eternity, hope had been conceived and grown in the womb of history until all of time was ripe for the birth of hope upon the resurrection of Christ, upon the defeat of death, upon the end to the destruction of sin. (Matthew 12:21, Romans 5:5, Romans 15:13)

The power of Christ is our hope. Hope is the action we take in response to the One who birthed its reality. And it doesn’t matter how many words I try to use to explain myself, I still fall short. (Exasperated sigh.)

I don’t hope for a better tomorrow. I live today with the hope of glory residing within me. (Colossians 1:27)

The idea hope is always coming--just out of reach, if you hold on just a little longer--is all wrong. Instead, hope is here, now, with you. Hope has arrived and is present. Hope is powerful if you choose to believe it now, not later, not tomorrow, not in the future. Believe Jesus is who He says He is today for this present joy, this present struggle, this present moment, and you will possess hope. You won’t have to hold onto it because it will be carried inside you like a light from within.

When I say, I have hope, I’m saying I have Jesus. The two are synonymous. I have hope for a brighter future for my children because Christ already resides in that future. He’s already there; therefore, I have hope, I can hope, I will hope.

To lose hope in any format, is to lose sight of Christ, to lose touch with the power of the Holy Spirit filling you with every breath. This is easy to do in a world where blinding lies and distractions vie for the attention of your heart, mind, and soul. Returning to Christ at any point for any reason is to reclaim the hope of your calling, to live fully once more. (Ephesians 1:18)

If truth is an anchor for the soul, hope is a buoy for the soul. It is a daily, present marker and reminder our God saves, He is faithful, and He keeps His promises. Hope is not in the future. It is something we possess now, something to keep us afloat for today because God came like He promised and made a way, a loophole around the sentence of death we chose for ourselves. The birth, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ made a way where there was no way before. So, if we carry the Holy Spirit with us, we carry hope with us.

When the world “hopes” it is a wish for better days, better things, better outcomes. A wish is whisked away on the wind with one breath—here today, gone tomorrow, often forgotten. True hope is the buoy on the horizon anchored to truth at its base. It is concrete and sure and immovable. Here today, tomorrow, and forever. It cannot be forgotten or lost because it never disappears. In our humanity, we often lose sight of it, but that doesn’t mean it’s not there.

To grasp the reality of having hope today, in this very moment, makes me smile from the inside out.

In all the ways I’m learning to let go, it is a relief to know hope is not something I have to hold onto for dear life. Hope resides within my very being, carried within me, alive and thriving and beating. The Holy Spirit is my hope. He simply needs to be acknowledged and credit given where credit is due.

When is the last time you considered where your hope comes from? When’s the last time you acknowledged and tapped into that hope? Who in your life needs you to share your ever-present hope with them today? Tis the season.

 

 

 

Questions People Ask

Do you miss California? Yes.

What do you miss most? Our entire way of life, but especially the people.

How do you like living in Georgia? We have a beautiful home that I love. Autumn is my favorite time of year, so it’s been a blessing to really experience it again.

How is Joey’s job? Good. He’s still adjusting to his new role, but it’s a blessing.

How are the kids? The kids are my heroes. We are full blown middle school years, and all the activity that encompasses. They are rockstars excelling at school and working hard at sports.

How are you doing?

….Uhhhhmmm. I’m fine. (Most days.) As good as can be expected. (What did I expect? What do you expect?) No complaints. (True statement, but I feel guilty for not being more convincing and excited about how God has provided for us.) I’m just here. Waiting.

I think if I was to be completely honest answering that last question, I need to say, “I don’t know.” But that brings an onslaught of conversation I don’t always welcome.

If I’m super introspective, I’m still grieving. And I know, grief is a dramatic word for a move. I get that. I’ve written about grief A LOT in the last decade. (Go click the "grief" label on my blog page!) It’s a deep chasm of emotion with so many nuances, and for some reason, I’ve experienced many facets of that chasm. But maybe because I have experienced so many sides to grief, I’ve learned to recognize it for what it is as well. It doesn’t surprise me like it use to. It doesn’t scare me either. It just is.

What does that look like? Sometimes I cry for no reason at all other than I just feel the presence of the grief. Sometimes I smile and make the best of my day knowing the grief is there, acknowledging it as my sidekick, but determined to be grateful and capture the joy-moments regardless. Sometimes it fades into the background for a breather, only to burst back on the scene like a rogue wave.

What I have learned is there’s no use ignoring it or shaming myself for feeling or experiencing the grief. I have learned to embrace it knowing it will subside. Hope lies on the other side of the chasm, and there is another side.

I do still struggle with the act of letting go. You see, all grief is a strange irony of wanting to hold on but needing to let go. To let go. It is a distasteful action in my mind. To let go of something you grieve, someone you grieve, feels like you are choosing to leave them behind. Depending on what it is you’re grieving releasing depends on how quickly and willingly it can be done. As with all things in life, some people move through the grief process quickly while others linger for a lifetime.

Here’s what I want others to say about me in my grieving:

She felt it all—deeply. She did not hide or run from the hard. She faced it all head on.

She loved Jesus well in the midst of her own struggles and those of others.

She shone with compassion and resiliency because on her good days she gave all the glory to God, and on her bad days, she stayed clinging to His feet. In either case, she loved Jesus well.

She was real. She was honest. She was true. With her Lord, with herself, and with others.

 

I don’t know if those statements reflect who I am today, but I know they reflect my heart’s desires.

In the letting go of what I grieve, I’m opening my hands wide to my Heavenly Father and trusting Him to fill them with good gifts. In holding on to what I grieve, I give Him less space in my life to pour His goodness.

In letting go, I’m trusting Him to fill me with the things and people He wants me to love today, now, presently. In holding on, I’m trusting myself more than Him to know what’s best for me.

In letting go, I am free to treasure the memory. In holding on, I am burdened by the weight of recreating what no longer exists, held captive by the past.

I long to be open, trusting, and free, not closed, disillusioned, and imprisoned.

So, I feel all the feels, but I stay close to my Jesus in it all because He came to set the captives free, to be light in the dark, and when I stay in the joy of His presence, I am protected from the darkness of despair, depression, and despondency.

If you asked me how I was doing, and I told you with a smile, “I’m still grieving, but my Jesus never leaves me,” what would you say? Would you pity me? Don’t. Would it make you uneasy, uncomfortable? Why? Would it make you want to walk big circles around me? Give me some space, instead of lean in closer? Those who grieve need the company of those who are willing to sit in the uncomfortable space and just be with them. There are no right words or actions. They just need to know they are not alone. They are seen. They are known.

My Jesus fulfills all these needs.   (My husband is pretty in tune as well after 20 years of studying me. He deserves a shout out for that.)

But it is my relationship with the Lord that must be enough. It must be the sustaining force. He must be my Source for all things first and foremost. I talk to Him as soon as the tears fall, and I thank Him as soon as I recognize a blessing. That’s the only way I’ve learned to navigate the chasm of grief.

I think I’ve said it before, but grief is more than an emotion. It is a thing. It has teeth and substance. It varies in degree of difficulty, but no matter the degree, it’s still a chasm to be navigated. In this day in age, it is my belief almost everyone is trying to navigate the crossing of a chasm of some size. The loss of a place, a thing, a job, of a dream, an opportunity, of a friend, a child, a spouse—anyone can be navigating more than one of these chasms at any point in time.

Jesus is the Bridge Who will help them cross; we can walk them to the Bridge. (1 Timothy 2:5)

Jesus is their Savior, only He can pull them out if they fall in the chasm; we can stand by with a rope and hold on while He pulls. (Hebrews 10:23-25)

Jesus will be their Light in the dark; we can shout encouragement into the night. (John 8:12)

Jesus will and has sacrificed Himself for their safety. He is their Protector; at the chasm’s edge, we can get our knees dirty in fervent prayers for a hedge of protection around them. (Romans 8:35-39, Job 1:10)

Jesus will never leave them; we can show up and be present, our physical presence a reminder they are not alone. (Deuteronomy 31:8)

Sometimes He sends us to be His hands and feet (Matthew 25:34-46). Sometimes we get to walk with them, hand in hand, for some of the crossing, but rarely for all. Grief must be crossed with Jesus. I’m not even sure you can ever make it to the other side of grief in a healthy way without Him.

So, who do you know that needs you to show up? How can you show support along their journey? Even in my own grief, I still ask these questions of myself because looking outside of myself is the best medicine for a downcast attitude.

I’m crossing this chasm with more determination and understanding than I have the last. More grace for myself and more grace for others. More focused on my Jesus instead of the waves. I want to acknowledge and celebrate that growth. I want to give God all the glory and credit for helping me learn, lean in, and grow despite the sadness. I’m grieving, but I’m okay, and that’s encouraging for me. Maybe it can be encouraging for you too. Jesus is willing, able, and fully capable to help you cross your chasms too. What step can you take today to trust Him a little more on that journey?

I’m learning to let go, and it’s a process and a journey, and I’m so very grateful I don’t traverse it alone in any way.