Wouldn’t it be nice if I could hope for you that all your days be merry and your nights be bright and your path be smooth and the sun shine gently on your face?
I’m sorry.
I don’t hope those things for you. I’ve seen a bit too much of life and the world. I want so much more than smiles and ease and comfort for you, and for me.
And so instead, my hope for you is that when your days are far from merry, you will sense a deep and abiding presence, holding your head above water and keeping your legs from crumbling beneath you.
My hope for you is that when your nights are darker than shadow, darker than black holes, darker than nightmares, the candles of those who love you will burn ever brighter and bathe you in their light. When your nights are dark, my hope is that you will be convinced morning is coming, even if you cannot see its pink and amber glow, because it has come before, because there is a promise.
My hope for you is that when your path is filled with potholes and boulders, when the hill is steep and the valley plunges, that you will remember those who have walked before you and that you will gather strength from their histories, from that great cloud of witnesses. My hope for you on the long, staggering journey is that though you may grow weary and may feel the pierce of thorns and the sting of blisters and burning thirst, that you will not turn back, that you will fix your eyes on the prize and press onward.
My hope for you is that when the sun is hidden behind a cloud and the sky is Minnesota-January gray and the wind is fierce against you and the rain pelts like needles, that you will have the courage to be vulnerable and honest, that you will not suffer alone but will seek the help and support and community you need, that you will ask for an umbrella and that you will stand beneath it, a friend at your side.
I hope these things for you and I hope them for me.
This year is fresh but already my knees tremble and the waters threaten to submerge. Already my days lack a vital sense of “merry” and already shadows loom over my nights. Already there are dips and rises and the journey seems longer than I want to bear. Already a storm gathers on the horizon.
And already there have been many on this road before me, already I feel buoyed. Already I see the glow of morning coming and already I am part of a community. A community of the hope-filled. Not the naïve, not the never-wounded, not the strength-fakers. The hope-filled.
And so, my hope for you is that you will enter this community, be buoyed by the hope you find here, and that we will burn bright together, in the light of the One who is our strong, eternal Hope.
(Image Credit: Tina Francis)
Rachel Pieh Jones has written for the New York Times, The Christian Science Monitor, EthnoTraveler, the Desiring God blog, and Skirt. She lives, writes, and runs in Djibouti with her husband and three children. She blogs at www.djiboutijones.com.
