Still Here

Hope and I have had a very interesting, multi-faceted relationship over the years. I thought I knew what hope was, but I’m not sure I ever took the time to truly get acquainted with hope. I made many assumptions but didn’t really take the time to get to know hope as well as I could have.

I thought I knew what hope was.

I equated hope with excitement and anticipation. Those two things are very closely related to hope. They’re probably cousins. But I mistook them both for hope.

I’m now realizing hope isn’t quite as flashy. She’s a little quieter. But I misunderstood the quiet. I didn’t take the time to look deeper and see the strength underneath. Hope is resilient. Hope has endurance. She doesn’t back down when things get difficult. She’s in it for the long haul.

When things get difficult, she actually digs a little deeper and gets a little quieter which is why I often overlooked her. I thought she had gone.

When things got difficult, I thought hope left. I stopped asking where she was. I stopped expecting her to show up. And I became angry. It wasn’t her fault. I’m the one who stopped asking and expecting, but I directed my anger at hope. I blamed her. I held her at arm’s length. I stopped inviting her in.

Now, as I look back at the difficult things, I see hope peeking through. There are flashes of hope everywhere - like fireflies in summer. Little sparks lighting up the darkness.

There were many times I wasn’t paying attention, and I missed the sparks of light. Somehow, I could only see the darkness even though the sparks were so bright. I wasn’t looking for them, and so, I didn’t see them. I didn’t see her. I didn’t see hope.

I didn’t notice, but she was sitting next to me the entire time.

I’ve always been here, she whispers. I never left. I’m still here. I’m waiting with you.

I’ve apologized for my misdirected anger, for my harsh words, for distancing myself.

We’re getting reacquainted. It feels warm - like sitting next to the red-orange embers after a fire has exhausted most of its energy. The flashy part has burned away, and things feel softer, warmer, quieter. It makes me want to draw closer.

And I’m discovering how wonderfully faithful hope is. And trustworthy, and kind, and loyal…and necessary.

I’m still waiting, but waiting with hope is better. Now that I understand her better and see her more clearly, I see that hope makes the waiting better.

I’d love to talk with you about your relationship with hope, your waiting, or anything else that’s on your mind. Please feel free to send me an email or schedule some one-on-one time with me. And consider subscribing to my blog, where I post lots of helpful suggestions on how you can begin (and continue) this journey of recovering your blueprint!