Defiant hope.

📷: Em Bateman

I started this blog a little over five years ago. At the time I was stuck (you can read more here). Writing has always helped me process. Journaling created a safe place for me to let out my unfiltered thoughts and which is all well and good and healthy and whatever. However, during a period of life I lovingly refer to as the “dark times,” because I was in a downward depression/ eating disorder spiral following the death of my brother, my journal became a place to feed the spiraling thoughts. I couldn’t get myself to find hope. I didn’t want to try and it didn’t hurt anybody but me so it didn’t matter.

One random day while sweeping the kitchen of my dingy college house I felt that gentle nudge- you know that holy spirit moment that you want to ignore and do ignore until it gets unbearable to keep ignoring it- to start this blog. Essentially, this space is an extension of my journal with just enough of a filter to force me to find hope. Unlike my journal, there is at least an off chance that one other human (most likely my parents) will read this, and while I didn’t think I deserved any hope I wanted them to have hope.

There’s been a lot of growth in the last few years. I would like to think I’ve moved past needing a blog post to find hope, yet, here I am.

In October we found out that my mom has stage 4 cancer. It’s not a death sentence but long-term remission is “not really on the table.” It’s been a bumpy start to treatment. Cancer sucks and COVID makes it worse.

In December, after months of prep and prayer, a job fell through in Greece. For a second time. Leaving Jason and I really confused. We’ve felt called to Greece for years. Since before we got married. Yet, doors that seemed miraculously opened keep slamming shut. I feel ashamed about the rejection and confused about what to do next.

Then, ya know, there’s the whole insurrection incited by the President. The very fabric of our democracy being attacked (literally they brought guns and bombs) with little to no consequences for anyone involved…yet (growth mindset?).

Hope seems hard to find.

When I start to look, I immediately jump to the “but at least” list. At least I have a house, and food, and a job. Yes, I know I have other positive things, but politely f*ck off. This sucks and you can’t tell to me just ignore it and feel better.

I read Honest Advent by Scott Erickson leading up to Christmas (and a few days after because I got behind). He finishes the book by talking about honest hope. Honest hope doesn’t ignore the hard, gross, and painful stuff. Honest hope invites us to look at every situation, no matter how despairing, as a birthplace for divine participation. Honest hope doesn’t ask us to ignore the pain but promises that God is with us. Always.

Here’s where I’ve found hope:

When I am sobbing hard enough to collapse in the shower (thanks cataplexy), I know that these feelings that are literally too big for me to contain are easily held by the Lord. I’m not asked to carry them alone.

When my mom is at doctor’s appointments or in the hospital alone because of COVID, she is not actually alone. The Holy Spirit is with her. And with me, as I not so patiently wait for updates.

When the name of Jesus is invoked in the same group that wishes to hang people from gallows God is not silent or passive. He is outraged at the injustice and abuse of the Gospel, and ultimately God’s will prevails.

Hope this big is risky.

If I dare to hope my mom is around for my kids (someday, calm down) it’s going to hurt that much more if she isn’t.

If I dare to hope that if God really did call me to Greece I’m even more confused and frustrated about the past 2 years of doors opened and slammed in my face.

If I dare to hope that justice will be served and tyranny will not win, am I setting myself up for disappointment? Probably.

I almost don’t want to hope because it might hurt less, but, as Jason reminded me, what are we if not people of hope? Who am I if not a person of hope?

So, I’ll choose hope even when I don’t want to and even when it hurts. My hope will be like my whiskey, defiant.