Holding Hope
God Is My Light
The funeral was not for her, so nearly departed.
It was for me,
Who needed more time.
You forgot to tell me you were dying.
You forgot to tell me I’d be needing more time.
On our very last time, we sat.
You, reaching for breath. Me, all worried.
Beads of sweat haloed your dark forehead and
I remember your shining in the 2 o’clock sun,
A black Madonna.
Last night I had a dream and in that dream
She appeared to me,
Standing tall in a black silk gown
Her hair all pretty
Her eyes, two lit candles.
“You’re alive,” I tried to speak, but
Slowly, like the eternity of God,
She raised one long finger to her parted lips --
Breathing “Shhh. . .”
Pure and long.
I awoke, my body drenched in light. I remember your shining.
She entered my office slowly, shuffling across the carpeted hallway and hesitantly hovering near my open door. I welcomed her and she sat down in one of the purple velvet chairs that had held the sacred stories of many women before her who had come to our shelter in pursuit of recovery from homelessness, addiction, and domestic violence.
When meeting a client for the first time, I often defaulted to an enthusiastic, open, inviting stance to help the client to feel comfortable. But despite my best and most buoyant efforts, her eyes remained downcast that day as her body sat slumped in the chair dejectedly.
After several sessions of getting to know her and her story, I began to see what a treasure this woman was. She was kind, gentle, and soft-spoken. Slow to speak, quick to chuckle quietly to herself if she found something amusing. When she was happy, her eyes lit up as a smile dawned like a sunrise over the troubled terrain of her face. Each time she smiled in my presence, I felt as though I was given a golden coin—precious in its rarity, miraculous when considering the enormity of trauma she had endured.
Session by session, she handed me bits of her story wrapped carefully in thin layers of trust. We were building something, her and I, and I began to look forward to every hour spent with her. I soon learned that she had survived abuse from an early age—abuse which continued long into adulthood.
She also shared that she had been a NICU nurse for many years and had profound joy when caring for premature newborns in their most vulnerable state. Before it was safe for any mother to hold their baby, she was there—holding and loving and singing over the fragile, tenuous lives that were often no bigger than her palm. Although she never would have told me, I sensed that she was gifted in her work and respected in her workplace. This wasn’t just a job for her—it was her calling and purpose. When the cords of addiction began to entangle her, she made the most difficult decision of her life: voluntarily leaving her job because she cared deeply about the safety of the babies she loved and wanted nothing to compromise that.
As she shared this part of her life with me, I felt her grief over the loss of the one thing that had brought her joy. There was a deep well of sadness shining in her dark eyes. I sensed that years later, she was still looking for something to hold, a softness to cradle in her arms. So I did something that felt a risky and a bit odd: I asked if she wanted a stuffed animal.
Silently, she nodded yes.
A few days earlier while rummaging in the counseling department’s storage closet, I had noticed a large drawer full of new donated stuffed animals that were likely intended for the children living in our shelter with their mothers. They had gone unclaimed for years, so in the middle of our session I found myself digging through that drawer and hurrying back to my office with several options in my hands. She chose a soft, fluffy white bear with a silky bow tied around its neck. At our next session, she sat a bit taller in her chair with her arms loosely wrapped around the bear in her lap.
When I asked if she had chosen a name for her new friend, she smiled shyly and answered,
“Hope.”
*
This week I listened to a sermon in which the speaker defined hope as “the emotional and spiritual awareness that it is possible to bridge the gap between how things are and how they were meant to be.” Hope is what makes life on earth worth living, yet hope is costly.
When we choose hope, we also choose the possibility of disappointment. Hope asks that we risk looking foolish as we put our trust in the promise that one day, Heaven and Earth will be one. All will be well, all will be redeemed, and all will be made new. Hope may even ask that we wait patiently for answers that might not be given to us in this life but in the life to come. This is scary. I want all of my hopes and longings to be fulfilled as soon as possible and without delay.
But if we are to take the word of God seriously, we must trust that ultimately our hope will not put us to shame. In the book of Romans, Paul describes the hope made possible because of Christ’s death and resurrection:
“And this hope will not lead to disappointment. For we know how dearly God loves us, because he has given us the Holy Spirit to fill our hearts with his love.” (Romans 5:5)
*
In the final weeks of her life, my client carried that bear with her everywhere. She brought Hope to mealtimes, classes, and meetings. For the first time in a long time, hope was her constant companion. One day, I arrived at work to learn that my dear client had been hospitalized with COPD complications. The following week, she was gone.
Her death devastated me. I had grown to love her, little knowing our time together would be so short. I felt regret, wishing I’d had the chance to tell her how much she meant to me. In the days following her death, I sat on my bedroom floor for hours—dazed and silent with grief. At her memorial service, I wept through the few words I had prepared to honor her. Gradually, I found rest in the reality that although she was gone, her legacy of hope was very much alive.
She died in the springtime, a season of newness in which hope takes root and blossoms across the barren landscape of our lives and makes everything impossibly new. Every spring, I think of her. I reflect on what an honor it was to journey with her in her final days and to witness her choose hope in spite of everything, holding it close to her chest and cradling it in her arms.
From her, I learned that hope is not something we pour all our effort into conjuring and clinging to. Rather, hope is a reality that takes hold of us—a gift we are invited to receive into our arms as effortlessly as we hold a newborn child or even a teddy bear.
In the end, she chose hope—a hope that had long ago chosen her.
*
Lord Jesus,
Make us into a people of impossible, beautiful hope. Let us reflect the love you so generously lavish upon us. Show us how to look more like you each day. Give us the courage to choose the hope that has chosen us and will not let go until we meet you face to face.
Amen.