the day the waiting meets the promise:
It's hard to write about the kind of empty this past year brought with it. The fear, confusion, exhaustion. It's especially hard to write about because I'm just now starting to feel the shift of balance with the mix of lighter things.The heavy has been hard. So I'm not going to write about the hard or the heavy. Not today! One day, I might write that story, but today is not that day.
Today is for hope.
Today is for trust.
Today is for writing about how messy both of those words are when they're brought to life -more than just letters on a page.
Over the past few months, there has been a song I've found trailing through my head, my house, and quite a lot of worship. Hope's Anthem by Bethel. For those of you who are unfamiliar, the chorus goes like this:
"My hope is in you, God.
I am steadfast, I will not be moved.
I'm anchored, never shaken.
All my hope is in you."
I have been moved and shaken. By no means has this past year felt anchored down to anything, except maybe my anxiety.
I haven't been able to bring myself to sing through the whole of this song. On good days, there are lines I skip over, because I don't believe them. On bad days, I cry through it instead. To sing of my stability would be a straight out lie. I want to be able to sing the words wholeheartedly, it's just not where I'm at. These melodies are just simply not true of me and where I currently stand.
But I'm climbing out of it.
I'm not slipping quite as often. There are footholds now.
I can see light and it's no longer blinding.
I might not be anchored, but at least I'm finding my balance.
How can I properly anchor myself to anything if I'm not first standing steady, right?
I have thought to be here in the climbing out many times, but the footing has been loose. Even now, I'm scared that I might be making the call too soon. At any minute I'm anticipating a rogue wave coming out from hiding to capsize my boat. I'm still very afraid that I'm not quite out of the mess and the mourning. But this is where hope enters the story.
I believe that until you get the gift of living it out deeply, hope is soft and light. This word seems a child's play toy, tossed around for fun. No sharp edges. No confusion. No instructions needed.
"Hope you have a good day."
"Hope you feel better."
hope, hope, hope...
familiar, unassuming, buoyant .
Hope in real life takes on a different character -something much more elusive.
"Uncertainty is the essential, inevitable, all-pervasive companion to your desire to make art. And tolerance for uncertainty is the pre-requisite to succeeding." -Art&Fear
Hope is an art.
And uncertainty is a pre-requisite for succeeding.
There is no hope when things are seen -fully uncovered. fully known. Hope involves mystery by definition. And with mystery comes risk -sharp edges and hidden corners. When we are in control and without want, there is no room for hope.
We have to be willing to tolerate the uncertainty. Worth while work comes from the ability to embrace the unknown. The effort to humbly look on and engage with the good, the bad, the full and the lacking and admit that there is something we don't understand here. There is something that we are waiting for -longing for.
But just because we hope, does that mean that there is trust?
In and of myself, is there even truth to fully trusting in God?
Trust is solid. Something you can see and grasp. Something that you fully understand. Something you know with full confidence and act on. There are instances that I can assuredly say I trust the Lord. But these are mere moments. Let's call it for what it is -doubt and mistrust are my instinct . I doubt that God loves me, or cares for me, or has plan and purpose for my life; and in this doubt, I falter in following him with trust in what he does or says.
I don't think I ever fully will until I see Him face to face.
There are too many loose ends and things that I just don't understand. Too much confusion and pain and suffering I have experienced personally and know on a larger scale to say that I am prone to trusting him, or that it is even possible to do that in my own strength.
But I still love him. I have still seen his goodness and love overflow in my life. At least as much as I am bewildered by the world's tragedy, I am amazed by the love and wonder of my God. And though I have not been walking earnestly with Jesus for long, I am learning to let him redeem my past. It's hard and painful, but also beautiful. I am loosening my grip to him, trying to look for him through the mess of it all; even in fragile hope.
I will still follow Him everyday, even with my broken past, broken heart and broken logic. I will follow as I face fear and doubt in relationship with him, for the rest of my days. And in the really good moments (that I hope are ever increasing), I can follow him in trust; but only ever with his help.
My lack of trust doesn't come from any character flaw he has, but it's bred from all of mine. All the ways in which I lack. The flaws I've taken in from others, the broken systems and flawed world views we all define our lives by.
I don't think God is surprised one bit by my lack of trust. And I don't think he's offended.
God has seen what I've been through. What my family has been through. He knows my personal weakness. He knows how I've been broken; he knows the broken systems that are programmed in my heart, in my communities, and worldwide. And he knows yours, too. He sees them all.
I might not trust the Lord. But that doesn't mean I don't know that he is completely worthy of my trust. More worthy than me, or anyone else.
And I think that's where the hope lies.
Hope is knowing that he is worthy of my trust! Hope is growing in it. Hope is putting confidence in God that he will have purpose here, even if I never come to see it. Hope is the longing to see it. The turning to God, repeatedly, in every stance and situation, asking that he would show me.
Show me his heart in my brokenness. His redemption through it. His purpose as he brings restoration and relationship through my struggle, confusion, lack of trust or misunderstanding.
Hope is the anticipation for the day the waiting meets his promise. Accepting the current uncertainty. Engaging the mystery. The restless shifting until the anthem can be sung over me in confidence as I dance.
As this anthem of hope has been haunting me, I have tried to let it sink in. Though I have not been confidently anchored, I know He is. As I sing. I imagine my God singing with me, answering for my lack:
"My hope is in you, God.
I am steadfast, I will not be moved.
I'm anchored, never shaken.
All my hope is in you."
Hope is not fluffy and unassuming. It is rugged, and hard earned. Hope knows the storm and the struggle, the mess and the mourning.
Hope is looking defeat straight in the face and insisting that the story is not over.
And I don't think you can look any sort of defeat in the face and not, at some point, be terrified. Defeat is not seen unless it's believed. Unless you see it's depth and darkness- for all the dread that it potentially holds. If defeat is not known, then hope is not hope. It's delusion.
In order to find any solution, we must first come to grips with understanding there is a problem; and we will never know the full joy of remedy if we don't first feel the depth of our need for it. There is always a bit of heartache in chasing the dream.
I find it interesting, that next to the Psalms, a book of 150 poems and songs, Job is the book of the Bible with the leading word count for hope. I searched. I counted. In the ESV translation, Job uses the word hope 21 times. That's only 7 less than the Psalms, a book around three times the size. That evens out to once every other chapter in a book known for it's personal narrative of suffering.
How is it that a book defined by suffering speaks so often of hope?
How is it that hope is found richer through it?
Where else do we see this?
For Abraham and Sarah-
Where would there be room for hope if there wasn't the years turned to decades of waiting. the passing of childbearing years, the taking the miracle son to the rock despite him holding the only line of Abraham's promises from God to ring true?
For Joseph-
Where would hope spring up if there wasn't first the betrayal of his brothers, the pit, the slavery, the several years in jail?
For us-
Where would our hope be if it wasn't for the trial, the one who was truly innocent judged guilty, the agonizing payment of death on a cross?
Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life. Proverbs 13:12
A longing for what is still unseen. Stubborn persistence that things are not how they should be. A patient waiting for the rescue, even when circumstances would point to our demise. Groaning, crying out, as we long to be taken to safety -this is where hope grows.
Hope is a seed, buried deep in cold ground. Through suffering and struggle, the plant breaks through and crawls it's way out to find itself in the muck of the earth. I, as the seed, am struggling. I am shaken, I am moved. I am writhing in the mud. My heart is sick, as I find myself so far from where I desire to be -above ground, sprouting and full. But my God, my ground, is anchored. His tree of life will sprout in time.
Here's to the waiting for the tree of full, abundant life to root itself in all our places we're scared to hope for, too fragile to trust in on our own. And here's to the encouraging wonder that awaits the broken seed.
Today is for hope.
Today is for trust.
Today is for writing about how messy both of those words are when they're brought to life -more than just letters on a page.
Over the past few months, there has been a song I've found trailing through my head, my house, and quite a lot of worship. Hope's Anthem by Bethel. For those of you who are unfamiliar, the chorus goes like this:
"My hope is in you, God.
I am steadfast, I will not be moved.
I'm anchored, never shaken.
All my hope is in you."
I have been moved and shaken. By no means has this past year felt anchored down to anything, except maybe my anxiety.
I haven't been able to bring myself to sing through the whole of this song. On good days, there are lines I skip over, because I don't believe them. On bad days, I cry through it instead. To sing of my stability would be a straight out lie. I want to be able to sing the words wholeheartedly, it's just not where I'm at. These melodies are just simply not true of me and where I currently stand.
But I'm climbing out of it.
I'm not slipping quite as often. There are footholds now.
I can see light and it's no longer blinding.
I might not be anchored, but at least I'm finding my balance.
How can I properly anchor myself to anything if I'm not first standing steady, right?
I have thought to be here in the climbing out many times, but the footing has been loose. Even now, I'm scared that I might be making the call too soon. At any minute I'm anticipating a rogue wave coming out from hiding to capsize my boat. I'm still very afraid that I'm not quite out of the mess and the mourning. But this is where hope enters the story.
I believe that until you get the gift of living it out deeply, hope is soft and light. This word seems a child's play toy, tossed around for fun. No sharp edges. No confusion. No instructions needed.
"Hope you have a good day."
"Hope you feel better."
hope, hope, hope...
familiar, unassuming, buoyant .
Hope in real life takes on a different character -something much more elusive.
"Uncertainty is the essential, inevitable, all-pervasive companion to your desire to make art. And tolerance for uncertainty is the pre-requisite to succeeding." -Art&Fear
Hope is an art.
And uncertainty is a pre-requisite for succeeding.
There is no hope when things are seen -fully uncovered. fully known. Hope involves mystery by definition. And with mystery comes risk -sharp edges and hidden corners. When we are in control and without want, there is no room for hope.
We have to be willing to tolerate the uncertainty. Worth while work comes from the ability to embrace the unknown. The effort to humbly look on and engage with the good, the bad, the full and the lacking and admit that there is something we don't understand here. There is something that we are waiting for -longing for.
But just because we hope, does that mean that there is trust?
In and of myself, is there even truth to fully trusting in God?
Trust is solid. Something you can see and grasp. Something that you fully understand. Something you know with full confidence and act on. There are instances that I can assuredly say I trust the Lord. But these are mere moments. Let's call it for what it is -doubt and mistrust are my instinct . I doubt that God loves me, or cares for me, or has plan and purpose for my life; and in this doubt, I falter in following him with trust in what he does or says.
So I guess it's confession time:
Hi, my name is Erin, and I don't trust God.I don't think I ever fully will until I see Him face to face.
There are too many loose ends and things that I just don't understand. Too much confusion and pain and suffering I have experienced personally and know on a larger scale to say that I am prone to trusting him, or that it is even possible to do that in my own strength.
But I still love him. I have still seen his goodness and love overflow in my life. At least as much as I am bewildered by the world's tragedy, I am amazed by the love and wonder of my God. And though I have not been walking earnestly with Jesus for long, I am learning to let him redeem my past. It's hard and painful, but also beautiful. I am loosening my grip to him, trying to look for him through the mess of it all; even in fragile hope.
I will still follow Him everyday, even with my broken past, broken heart and broken logic. I will follow as I face fear and doubt in relationship with him, for the rest of my days. And in the really good moments (that I hope are ever increasing), I can follow him in trust; but only ever with his help.
My lack of trust doesn't come from any character flaw he has, but it's bred from all of mine. All the ways in which I lack. The flaws I've taken in from others, the broken systems and flawed world views we all define our lives by.
I don't think God is surprised one bit by my lack of trust. And I don't think he's offended.
God has seen what I've been through. What my family has been through. He knows my personal weakness. He knows how I've been broken; he knows the broken systems that are programmed in my heart, in my communities, and worldwide. And he knows yours, too. He sees them all.
I might not trust the Lord. But that doesn't mean I don't know that he is completely worthy of my trust. More worthy than me, or anyone else.
And I think that's where the hope lies.
Hope is knowing that he is worthy of my trust! Hope is growing in it. Hope is putting confidence in God that he will have purpose here, even if I never come to see it. Hope is the longing to see it. The turning to God, repeatedly, in every stance and situation, asking that he would show me.
Show me his heart in my brokenness. His redemption through it. His purpose as he brings restoration and relationship through my struggle, confusion, lack of trust or misunderstanding.
Hope is the anticipation for the day the waiting meets his promise. Accepting the current uncertainty. Engaging the mystery. The restless shifting until the anthem can be sung over me in confidence as I dance.
"My hope is in you, God.
I am steadfast, I will not be moved.
I'm anchored, never shaken.
All my hope is in you."
Hope is not fluffy and unassuming. It is rugged, and hard earned. Hope knows the storm and the struggle, the mess and the mourning.
Hope is looking defeat straight in the face and insisting that the story is not over.
And I don't think you can look any sort of defeat in the face and not, at some point, be terrified. Defeat is not seen unless it's believed. Unless you see it's depth and darkness- for all the dread that it potentially holds. If defeat is not known, then hope is not hope. It's delusion.
In order to find any solution, we must first come to grips with understanding there is a problem; and we will never know the full joy of remedy if we don't first feel the depth of our need for it. There is always a bit of heartache in chasing the dream.
I find it interesting, that next to the Psalms, a book of 150 poems and songs, Job is the book of the Bible with the leading word count for hope. I searched. I counted. In the ESV translation, Job uses the word hope 21 times. That's only 7 less than the Psalms, a book around three times the size. That evens out to once every other chapter in a book known for it's personal narrative of suffering.
How is it that a book defined by suffering speaks so often of hope?
How is it that hope is found richer through it?
Where else do we see this?
For Abraham and Sarah-
Where would there be room for hope if there wasn't the years turned to decades of waiting. the passing of childbearing years, the taking the miracle son to the rock despite him holding the only line of Abraham's promises from God to ring true?
For Joseph-
Where would hope spring up if there wasn't first the betrayal of his brothers, the pit, the slavery, the several years in jail?
For us-
Where would our hope be if it wasn't for the trial, the one who was truly innocent judged guilty, the agonizing payment of death on a cross?
Hope deferred makes the heart sick, but a longing fulfilled is a tree of life. Proverbs 13:12
A longing for what is still unseen. Stubborn persistence that things are not how they should be. A patient waiting for the rescue, even when circumstances would point to our demise. Groaning, crying out, as we long to be taken to safety -this is where hope grows.
Hope is a seed, buried deep in cold ground. Through suffering and struggle, the plant breaks through and crawls it's way out to find itself in the muck of the earth. I, as the seed, am struggling. I am shaken, I am moved. I am writhing in the mud. My heart is sick, as I find myself so far from where I desire to be -above ground, sprouting and full. But my God, my ground, is anchored. His tree of life will sprout in time.
Here's to the waiting for the tree of full, abundant life to root itself in all our places we're scared to hope for, too fragile to trust in on our own. And here's to the encouraging wonder that awaits the broken seed.
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