Hope is the Thing With Feathers
"Hope" is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
It's maybe the only Emily Dickinson poem I like, but I have a special affinity for it.
It could be because I identify with all things related to birds, a fact only my best friends know about me. Or it could be because it so succinctly and profoundly gives a visual for the illusive idea of hope.
Hope. I've been mulling over the concept for a few days now because things are going so badly and life is so hard that my hope in the goodness of the Lord's plan for me is weakening. My own running definition of hope has always been, "the confidence that God has not forsaken me." These days it's not enough to keep me going. God may not have forsaken me, but is his presence good, and is it good enough to make the end worth it?
Today my hope is looking a lot more like this:
"This will not destroy me."
"I am not being destroyed," right up to the very end.
"One day when the sky rolls back on us..."
It's a slow, painful descent to hands and knees, where I say, "I'll pray until my lungs stop breathing."
And till my knees are worn to bone.
It's running till I fall over.
It's paying attention to the dreams of my heart and hovering over them.
It's not being aimless, but crawling toward a vision of what will be.
It's doing that even when I'm not convinced.
It's being not convinced, sometimes.
Because hope isn't knowing, but trusting.
It's, "don't worry, I've heard this story before. It has a good ending."
Hope is reading the Bible again and again till something makes sense.
Hope is not believing my five senses when they tell me God is playing a cruel trick on humanity by creating this world.
Hope says, "Father along we'll understand why,"
Father along we'll know all about it.
Hope lives in the sunshine.
It sings the Katy Perry song because 'this is the part of me that you're never gonna ever take away from me, and you're not gonna break my soul.'
Hope is staying in Atlanta, Georgia.
It's making a space for God to come through; it's making an allowance for miracles.
It's calling Sarah every couple of days just to hear, "It has to get better," and knowing if it doesn't, we will still keep saying it will.
Hope is Matthew 5 & Hosea 11 & Lamentations 3 & Amos 5 and believing they're true for me.
It's praising for the good I've already seen, for simple salvation, for how He was and is and is to come.
Hope is saying I can do this.
Or I can't.
I definitely can't.
But God is for me and none against, so I can.
And a whole bunch of times in the Old Testament, hope is waiting for and seeking the goodness of God.
That perches in the soul -
It's maybe the only Emily Dickinson poem I like, but I have a special affinity for it.
It could be because I identify with all things related to birds, a fact only my best friends know about me. Or it could be because it so succinctly and profoundly gives a visual for the illusive idea of hope.
Hope. I've been mulling over the concept for a few days now because things are going so badly and life is so hard that my hope in the goodness of the Lord's plan for me is weakening. My own running definition of hope has always been, "the confidence that God has not forsaken me." These days it's not enough to keep me going. God may not have forsaken me, but is his presence good, and is it good enough to make the end worth it?
Today my hope is looking a lot more like this:
"This will not destroy me."
"I am not being destroyed," right up to the very end.
"One day when the sky rolls back on us..."
It's a slow, painful descent to hands and knees, where I say, "I'll pray until my lungs stop breathing."
And till my knees are worn to bone.
It's running till I fall over.
It's paying attention to the dreams of my heart and hovering over them.
It's not being aimless, but crawling toward a vision of what will be.
It's doing that even when I'm not convinced.
It's being not convinced, sometimes.
Because hope isn't knowing, but trusting.
It's, "don't worry, I've heard this story before. It has a good ending."
Hope is reading the Bible again and again till something makes sense.
Hope is not believing my five senses when they tell me God is playing a cruel trick on humanity by creating this world.
Hope says, "Father along we'll understand why,"
Father along we'll know all about it.
Hope lives in the sunshine.
It sings the Katy Perry song because 'this is the part of me that you're never gonna ever take away from me, and you're not gonna break my soul.'
Hope is staying in Atlanta, Georgia.
It's making a space for God to come through; it's making an allowance for miracles.
It's calling Sarah every couple of days just to hear, "It has to get better," and knowing if it doesn't, we will still keep saying it will.
Hope is Matthew 5 & Hosea 11 & Lamentations 3 & Amos 5 and believing they're true for me.
It's praising for the good I've already seen, for simple salvation, for how He was and is and is to come.
Hope is saying I can do this.
Or I can't.
I definitely can't.
But God is for me and none against, so I can.
And a whole bunch of times in the Old Testament, hope is waiting for and seeking the goodness of God.
* Lamentations 3 *
* Psalm 27 *
* Psalm 13 *
Believing the goodness of God, right on through the wormwood and the gall. I want to know my small place. I want to know God's big glory. I want to have a faith that waits better, seeks better, and a faith that never tires of trusting the infinite goodness of God. I'm not there yet.
Comments
Post a Comment