Hope Is Evergreen
Optimism and hope are radically different attitudes. Optimism is the expectation that things: The weather, human relationships, the economy, the political situation, and so on—will get better. Hope is the trust that God will fulfill God’s promises to us in a way that leads us to true freedom. The optimist speaks about concrete changes in the future. The person of hope lives in the moment with the knowledge and trust that all of life is in good hands. - Henri Nowen
For a few years, I had the opportunity to be a part of a group of women who left a mark on me in a way that not many things in my life have. We came from the farthest reaches of our massive country—from Hawaii to Virginia and a bit of everything in between. The purpose of the group seemed to morph over time as our needs did, but at a high level, the friend who invited us all in did the most beautiful job of making space for a group of women who are leaders in some capacity to be whatever we needed to be at any given time. There was a framework, of course, but there was always a lot of room for discerning hearts to know that we could take a different road at any given moment.
Two times per year, this group would retreat together. When you gather fifteen-ish women, give or take, you would find a group of people in very different places—some of us on our metaphorical mountain tops and others walking through the valley of the shadow of death. Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep—this spirit was so tangible during our days together. I say with all certainty that between all of us, we came to the table with nearly every imaginable category of loss and grief that you could list. We came with some triumphant wins, too. We cried, and we laughed so hard that we cried, too. We knew that we could be what we needed to be there. When we gathered, the veil was so thin—the kind where heaven felt like you could almost reach up and touch it. These women are many things, but most of all, they are carriers of hope.
It was March of 2021, and we had gathered in Maui for our semi-annual retreat. It was the morning, and we had come together to begin our day in worship. Two of the sweetest souls had come with an offering of their guitars and voices—but mostly a spirit eager to impart the presence of the Lord into that room. I can’t remember exactly what was said, but the man leading us tenderly spoke about the song he was about to sing, and as he began, it was as if I were given permission from God himself to let go. I began to weep—the ugly cry, the very loud, whole-body kind of weeping that cannot be hidden. Honestly, I’m not sure I have ever cried that hard up to that point in my life, and I haven’t cried that hard since. I had lost a baby in June of 2020, and though I thought I had dealt with the harder parts of that loss, I found out that day just how much more was there to release.
I can remember feeling better after that—slightly embarrassed at how much I had let myself be seen, but something broke off of me in that moment that I don’t quite have words for. It was grief—for the loss of the baby, yes, but I have to believe what had come up had been sitting dormant from far before that.
Today, I turned to the passage in my Bible where I beat the drum on a lot in my letters to you. If you have been reading them for any length of time, you can probably fill in the blank. I would have lost heart unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living. (Psalm 27:13) Here is a photo of my Bible where this verse is lovingly marked with dates that I have especially needed this reminder. In the end, this verse could be paraphrased as this—as Nowen said, all of life is in good hands. ALL of life. Do not lose hope.
Tattooed on the inside of my right wrist is an anchor. That anchor symbolizes for me, you guessed it, hope. The inspiration came from the Book of Hebrews. “This hope we have as an anchor of the soul, both sure and steadfast, and which enters the Presence behind the veil, where the forerunner has entered for us, even Jesus, having become High Priest forever according to the order of Melchizedek.” (Hebrews 6:19-20) It’s worth mentioning that I grew up on Hope Street. I can’t say I thought about it too much as a kid, but maybe that last turn to my house each day buried something down deep inside of me long before I even came to know Jesus.
The first week of Advent is set aside to meditate on hope. I have clung to hope for much of my life as if it is all we have. I can say with certainty that 2024 has been the hardest year of my life. At every turn, it seems as though the darkness is caving in on all sides, and there is nothing in my human power I can do to stop it—it is as close to a hopeless feeling as I have ever had. And yet, I come to a place where hope is all I have. My hope does not come from my power; I ran out of it long ago. My hope rests in a man, and His name is Jesus.
I have often thought of the people in the first century who were awaiting their Messiah. I wonder what the anticipation must have been like, given all that was being foretold to them. I think about the seven hundred years and generations that passed before the day that Jesus was born. Isaiah was one such prophet who spoke of His coming.
“The people who walked in darkness Have seen a great light;
Those who dwelt in the land of the shadow of death,
Upon them a light has shined.
You have multiplied the nation And increased its joy;
They rejoice before You According to the joy of harvest,
As men rejoice when they divide the spoil.
For You have broken the yoke of his burden And the staff of his shoulder,
The rod of his oppressor,
As in the day of Midian.
For every warrior’s sandal from the noisy battle,
And garments rolled in blood,
Will be used for burning and fuel of fire.
For unto us a Child is born, Unto us a Son is given;
And the government will be upon His shoulder.
And His name will be called Wonderful, Counselor,
Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.”
Isaiah 9:2-6
Two thousand years later, we find ourselves in another season of Advent—a time set aside to look both back and forward. It is a time to ponder what it is like to wait for promises to be fulfilled without knowing how or when. We look back to what it must have been like to hear the prophetic announcements of the birth of Christ and to wait. We fast forward to now. As much as you can, as you read this, drown out every distraction and sit in the present moment with everything it may hold for you in this season. You may be on your metaphorical mountain or, like me, be walking through the valley of the shadow of death.
I put myself in the scene. From the valley, my gaze slowly lifts from the only step I have strength enough to take—the one right in front of me—to the mountain ahead of me that feels insurmountable to climb. The mountain casts a long shadow, attempting to drown out every ounce of light, every step feeling impossible to take. Impossible only if I consider myself to be walking alone inside my weary, sinful, compromised casing of earthly flesh and bones. But I’m not walking alone, and neither are you.
Enter Hope.
The people who have walked in darkness have seen great light, and light has a name. Wonderful Counselor. Might God. Everlasting Father. Prince of Peace. Instead of looking at the mountain, I glance to my left, and right beside me on the journey is the same man Isaiah foretold to people in the first century who were human just like you and I. It was a prophecy of hope. The same hope spoken of two thousand years ago is the hope we speak of now. We know the story of Jesus, and we find ourselves once again in a place of waiting in anticipation of what is to come. We see the strength to carry on inside our bodies that will one day fail. We reach for the light no matter how dark it gets. We take the next step with hope, as little as it may seem, because hope is in a man, and hope is evergreen.
So beautiful and inspiring...and I needed it right now. Thank you, Julie.
I need this reminder right now, Julie. Thank you.