I’m putting folded laundry away in my oldest daughter’s room. I set the laundry basket down next to her door and reach up to straighten a slightly-crooked picture frame. I pause and smile, just the tiniest bit. This picture is more than just artwork in my toddler’s room.
If I really concentrate, I can still feel the faintest shadow of that sad, lonely, dark time when we purchased the framed painting. Usually, I mostly feel the pleasant glow from that single spark of hope that kept me warm through it all.
“Do you think we should get it? You know… in case we ever do get pregnant? It would be perfect in a nursery.”
So we bought it and tucked it away in the back of my closet, so I wouldn’t have to look at it every day and be reminded you weren’t here; you weren’t ours yet.
And now here it is, hanging proudly and happily and a little crookedly in your room. I can look at it and smile, reminiscent of the time it took to get to this point.
Hope is like that.
A small fragment of hope is like a little string on your sweater that you subconsciously and nervously tug on a little to make sure it’s still there. But you don’t dare tug too hard for fear you’ll unravel the whole thing and find yourself four glasses of wine deep, crying and sad and desperate. It’s just a little thread that keeps you company every day, that you fiddle with when your day and mind slow down.
Hope is like a little spark that can turn into a small flame, which when gently stoked and blown on, can turn into a bonfire. But it can also easily be stifled by too much, too soon. So you’re careful with it. You guard it. You don’t talk about it too much. You don’t want to ruin it.
I find myself in a different hard season of life. I don’t struggle to wonder if we’ll ever have our own family anymore. Now I’m wondering if anything will ever feel normal again.
If the heavyweight of a global pandemic will ever alleviate.
If the grief from a year wasted in near isolation will ever subside.
If the anger of watching others’ carelessness will ever dissipate.
If the sting from lost loved ones will ever burn less.
I hope it does.
Hope is what keeps us moving, keeps us getting out of bed in the morning, keeps us going through the motions when we otherwise would rather be wallowing in sadness. Hope is what gives us life during the dark times, and I can’t think of a darker collective time than right now.
