And so, I have hope

“And so, I have hope.”

I didn’t understand what she meant. We were discussing how busy the week had been. In addition to working her overnight shifts, she listed a series of family events that included juggling childcare due to the hospitalization of her daughter. “And so, I have hope.”

Just then, a wide-eyed five-year-old bounced into our conversation with a question. That’s when Marjie Swieringa introduced me to her granddaughter. Ah, so this is Hope!

And this is also hope. When a week turns crazy, or we face a loss, or we enter a season of uncertainty and the Land of Unknown, hope is what we grasp. We believe God is in it somehow, somewhere. Where else can we turn?

In a July conversation with God about this same subject, I asked Him what hope looked like (Rivers from Eden, 40 Days of Intimate Conversation with God by Eden and Brad Jersak). The image that came to mind was a lighthouse in a storm. I liked that. The symbol spoke to me then.

The symbol spoke again on a rough December day as Linda Bobysud and Karen Wimbush from the prayer group ministered to me. At one point Linda remembered a painting advertised in a catalog. She searched, found it, cut it out, and handed it to me. The painting’s focus? A lighthouse in a storm. (Ask me to show you sometime. It’s marking Psalm 18 in my Bible.)

One week after my January wrist fracture, I was scheduled to see the doctor who treated me in the emergency room. My frame of mind? Anxious. I couldn’t stop estimating the medical costs. The swelling had not reduced enough for me to be casted. I was aggravated by the limits of one-handed tasks. I fretted.

At the doctor’s office my husband Walter and I were ushered into a small room with two chairs. We seated ourselves. The employee closed the door as she exited. And there on the wall, positioned directly in front of me, hung a framed picture of a lighthouse. Hugh waves and white spray surrounded and crashed around the structure. I smiled.

And so, I have hope.