Hope Does Not Disappoint

Driving our Dodge Caravan down 95^th street at 3:30pm, the line of cars in front of me braking red because of the yellow light flashing on the white “School Zone” sign to my left, I see a boy-man swaying down the sidewalk, ear buds in ears, head bobbing side-to-side, backpack barely hanging onto wide shoulders, and a goat loaded up like a pack mule trotting down the sidewalk behind him.

What in the world?

I close and open my eyes just as our van passes the shaggy, brown-haired, two-horned, bearded goat and his teenage owner, and I yell at my boys sitting quietly (for once!) in the back seat, “Boys! Look over there! A goat!” As the boys look over their shoulders at the goat’s swaying rump, my mind wanders from 95^th street to the time my parents took my boys and I to Deanna Rose—a working farm in the middle of the city—to feed a tribe of shaggy goats.

I remember Dad pushing silver quarters in a gumball-looking machine that dumped out brown lumps of goat feed into waiting palms. I remember three-year-old Micah running into the goat pen, food pellets dropping from clenched fingers, only to fly out screaming when a grey goat with glossy black eyes gnawed on his white t-shirt, leaving behind a hole, slimy goat spit, and a kid who didn’t like goats anymore . . . .

It’s that time of year again—when the smallest (or strangest) thing triggers a mural of memories. You see a piece of jewelry, an old black-n-white photo, a sweater, a restaurant sign, and one memory leads to another, leaving you in tears of joy or tears of pain.

Even now, as I sit on the white couch in my living room typing on my laptop, I hear the deep bong-bong, click-click, click-click, of the electric clock on my buffet, an out-of-the-blue gift from a cousin earlier this year. Across the bottom of the dark wood clock is a silver plate with the inscription: Irma and Gil, 25^th Anniversary, 1937-1962.

That clock sat on top of the TV cabinet in Grandma Irma’s Chicago condo all through my childhood, and now, as its gentle bong-bong snakes around my living room, I remember the one time I played hide-n-seek with cousins in Grandma’s condo. I hid in the front hall closet with my cousin Josh, right next to the old Hoover, right under the moth-ball-smelling coats, and as we waited for someone to discover our hiding place, I asked him if he liked girls, and I don’t remember what he said, but I do remember my parents, uncles, and aunts sitting on Grandma’s floral  hide-a-bed and rose colored wing chairs, chatting about Chicago weather and memories of long-dead Grandpa Gil, avoiding politics and religion because no one (well, except Grandma) wanted to offend Uncle Jack, the lone atheist/agnostic Democrat. As the conversation flowed round the room, the clock rang out its gentle bong-bong, click-click every fifteen minutes, marking the seepage of time.

And now, twenty-some years later, I remember another family conversation, a conversation between Dad and I the morning after one of mom’s rages ended in scary suicide threats and crazy stories. I remember pleading with Dad to see a Christian counselor who specialized in such things, and he said:

“There’s nothing I can do. I’ve tried it all. There’s nothing a counselor can tell me that I don’t already know.  This is my life for the rest of my life,” his voice flat-line, cold, matter-of-fact.

No hope. No hope. No hope.

I remember saying to Dad, the pastor turned seminary professor: “But God can do anything, anything at all. There’s always Hope!” but even as I said the words, they felt soulless because I wasn’t sure if I believed them anymore.

No hope. No hope. No hope.

    And the memory of Dad’s hopelessness brings me back to my junior year of college—sitting in American Lit. with Dr. Sommers, the white winter sun beaming in through the narrow window of the fourth floor classroom onto the worn blue carpet, and I hear her voice reading soft:

“’Hope’ is the thing with feathers - That perches in the soul - And sings the tune without the words - And never stops - at all - And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard - And sore must be the storm- That could abash the little Bird - That kept so many warm. I’ve heard it in the chillest land - And on the strangest Sea - Yet - never - in Extremity, It asked a crumb - of me.Share this text ...?Twitter” Emily Dickinson).

According to Miss Dickinson, Hope keeps you warm in the midst of a storm, in the chillest land, on the strangest sea. Hope is like a bird—perching on the edge of your soul, singing a silent, sweet song that buoys you up in the hardest of times.

But what is the foundation of this Hope? What keeps Hope singing its silent song to your soul, even in the most hopeless of situations, the darkest of memories? What makes Hope more than mere wishful thinking: “I hope things will turn out!”

What makes Hope the sure anchor of the soul?

For years I put my Hope in family members getting help, in counselors giving answers, in research and understanding, in ME just being strong enough, fighting hard enough to fix all the problems in my life.  But I was left feeling betrayed, disappointed.

And this morning, as I ran my miles on the treadmill, I put this song on repeat, letting the truths sooth my soul:

Here we have a firm foundation,
Here the refuge of the lost;
Christ's the Rock of our salvation,
His the name of which we boast.
Lamb of God, for sinners wounded,
Sacrifice to cancel guilt!
None shall ever be confounded
Who on him their hope have built.

(Stricken, Smitten and Afflicted, emphasis mine)

This year, as my mind inevitably travels down the hall of memories, as my heart longs for healing in my family, I place my Hope in He who does not disappoint: And hope does not disappoint us, because God has poured out his love into our hearts by the Holy Spirit, whom he has given us.(Romans 5:5-8)

This year, when tears of sorrow fall--for lost family, for broken marriages, for the difficulty of life circumstances, I look to Jesus, the sure foundation of my Hope. He is love and peace, and works “all things together for good.”

May the God of hope fill [us] with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit. (Romans 15:13)

 

Salve to the soul this morning: Fernando Ortega's Stricken, Smitten and Afflicted.

 

 You can view a live cello/piano version of this song here. The song was played at John Piper's Act the Miracle Conference. (My hubby got to hear it live! Said it brought him to tears.) The song is at 41:48 on the video.

Related Post: My Mamaw: Origins of Delusion