I just have a lot to say.
December 20th, 2017 by


“The world is starving for Hope,” proclaim both preacher and politician. Barack Obama’s presidential platform was Hope. Bill Clinton’s campaign touted him A Man from Hope. We name our daughters Hope. We sing about that little ole ant:

He’s got high Hope! He’s got high Hope! He’s got high, apple pie, in the sky Hope!

“Tomorrow is another day!” proclaims hopeful Scarlett O’Hara in Gone with the Wind.

At the end of our story, we sigh, “All we had was Hope. We never lost Hope.”

Ah, Hope. Some days I hate Hope.

Hope precedes the interview, then the email: “Thank you for your interest, but we chose someone better than you.”

Hope buoys for the follow up doctor’s visit: “It’s worse than we thought.”

Hope gets flushed down the toilet month after month after month when menstruation starts.

Hope yo-yos. 

Hope lends a hand up, then shoves you back into the dumps.

Hope breathes life into your soul, then sucks it out again.

Hope devastates.

“If only I hadn’t gotten my Hope up.”

“Hope deferred makes the heart sick . . . .” (Proverbs 13:12a)

“The miserable have no other medicine. But only Hope.” (Claudio in Shakespeare’s Measure by Measure)

Hope manages easier during daylight. “The tigers come at night,” Eponine sings in Les Miserables, “with their voices soft as thunder, as they tear your Hope apart.” And rob you of your sleep.

But sometimes, even in waking hours, Hopeless befriends kinder than Hope.

Hopeless never turns its back.

Hopeless never hurts feelings.

Hopeless is consistent, constant, steady.

“Things are going to get a lot worse before they get worse,” instructs wise Lily Tomlin.

I twist my hair and suck my cheeks. I hold hands with Hopeless.

The tall friend forces eye contact. “Are you okay?”

“I’m never okay. I just usually hide it better.”

Into the safety of the darkness, a sunbeam slips. Like Bert in Mary Poppins, I feel a subtle wind change.

“Uh oh,” I confess to a beloved, “I’m feeling hopeful. Please talk me down off the ledge.”

She giggles and encourages, “Give up! All Hope is lost!” Then admits, “Who wants another day if it looks like this one?”

Stupid, stupid Hope.

Emily Dickinson calls Hope “the thing with feathers.”

Alexander Pope rhymes it “springs eternal in the human breast.” 

Apostle Paul lists it in 1 Corinthians 13:13 as one of only three things that last: Faith, Hope, Love.

“If you had lost all your Hope, I wouldn’t be here, and here I am.” (Fairy Godmother in Disney’s Cinderella)

“. . . but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life.” (Proverbs 13:12b)

Oops! There goes another rubber tree plant.

Dadgum. It’s bubbling up again.


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