Hope Hurts

Let me tell you how.

Hope, according to Dictionary.com means, “the feeling that what is wanted can be had or that events will turn out for the best: to give up hope.” [emphasis mine]

It means that something good will happen. Will, meaning not yet, not right now. Hope is an investment. A belief in some later payoff. Hope hurts because it requires you to wait, to believe that though it may not appear so, things will come out right.

It’s easy to give up hope, to turn to cynicism,  even Dictionary.com likes to point that out in it’s example use of the word. It’s much more common to give up on hope than to to hold onto to it. It’s elusive and intangible, and it makes you discontent with the status quo, believing in something better.

Lately I’ve been wanting to go the easy route, to let my circumstances tell me what will be, to ignore the possibilities in the promises that I believe that God has given me. It’s much easier to resign myself to this existence than to live in the current situation of trial knowing at some point it may not be so…does this even make sense?

How could it be that the knowledge that things will be better make it hard to live through difficult circumstance?

Well, to know that there is possible life outside this circumstance and it’s just not accessible yet. That for now I must be in the difficulty waiting and believing for better. How foolish this seems written out. Obviously this is only for a short time, but perhaps the frustration lies that it could not be this difficult now, that the hope is just being held out longer. For you don’t need hope for something that has already been fulfilled, only that which has not been fulfilled requires the hope that it will happen.

Proverbs says something on the matter, “Hope deferred makes the heart sick…” (Prov. 13:12a). You see, the heart becomes sick. It becomes an effort, a chore to carry on believing that the good will happen. That verse continues on to say, 
“…But desire fulfilled is a tree of life.” (Prov. 13:12b). 

Lately God has been building up my hope muscle, stretching it beyond my ability. How long can I hope for what seems impossible?

This past week something terrible happened and through it God stretched my Hope muscle in a different and difficult way. My friend died. She was riding her bike to work early in the morning and she was hit by a truck. It felt like I had been hit by a truck when I got the news. I was floored. I was having a weird day and then I heard this news, I tried to continue to carry on as usual but I couldn’t get out the door onto the floor without sobbing. I left early and went to a friends apartment.

Grief is uncomfortable for a lot of people, because it looks different for everyone and there’s not really an exact science with how to approach it. A lot of times a favorite phrase is, “they’re in a better place”, especially for Christians. Oftentimes that particular phrase is paired with, “we shouldn’t be sad, we should rejoice because they are with Jesus now.”


I mean yeah, but no.

Yes, it’s true she is in heaven with Jesus. It’s true I should celebrate her life, all that she did and that I should rejoice that she is with Jesus, but I miss my friend. I miss the wonderful woman that she was  and brought into my life. I miss her laughter, how she was always was covered in paint from her job. Her obnoxiously loud voice and the way she handled awkward silences (decidedly not well). I miss her love of coffee, the precise amount of cream she needed. I miss how she would share so wonderfully what Jesus was telling her, what she was walking through life with Him in that moment.

I am happy knowing she is with Jesus, and I will see her one day, but I miss her now. I have hope that one day I will see her, but right now I am dealing with the present of her no longer being around, of going to church tomorrow and knowing I won’t see her.

As a source of comfort, I recently read C.S. Lewis’s  “The Last Battle”, the final book in the Chronicles of Narnia. Spoilers: in the end they die and enter Aslan’s Country (a.k.a. Heaven). Upon reaching heaven the characters have a wonderful reunion with all the friends of theirs that have passed. It’s amazing. Aslan says to Lucy Pevensie, “The term is over: the holidays begun. The dream is ended: this is the morning.”

Do you see what I see? The greatest part of heaven is the final hope is fulfilled. We have reached what we were designed for, complete community with the Father and His creation. My friend has reached the hope fulfilled, and I (among many) am waiting on hope.

You know what else, I realized this week? Whatever I am hoping for, I don’t have to wait alone. One of the best ointments to ease the longing that hope creates, the grief that you face when you lose someone, is people who are experiencing it with you, or people who just care and help carry that burden. That first night, we all gathered to tell stories and eat food, to laugh and to weep. The next day, I spent with two amazing men and together we helped carry each other in our grief.

I don’t know if there was a specific point I was trying to get to in this, other than hoping and longing for wholeness is hard and it can be crippling, but when you have a God who cares for you and people who can help, the load is a lot more easy to bear.