It’s 2018. I want to believe this is the year. I believed that same statement at the start of 2017. My hope is like a well-worn, favorite shirt. A bit tattered, not as crisp as when I first got it. The fact that I still want to put it on, to wear hope, feels like the hardest move somedays. I’d rather just fold it up and tuck it away. Somehow it feels easier to not hope. I won’t be let down if I don’t think today will be the day.
I thought, maybe when I’m with my parents in California for Christmas, we’ll get the call – cause how fun would that be to have my parents in the same room when we get the news we’ve been waiting to hear for so many years? On my birthday, I thought, maybe we’ll get the call because that’s all I really want for my birthday. Instead there was no call and I sit with the thought I never picture myself as turning 36, childless.
See why it’s hard for me to wear hope often? This is why I am so glad for my community. I know, I am a broken record, but it’s the most beautiful hopeful thing I have in this season of waiting. Friends who ask me to be with their daughter for her Sunday morning nap and bring her to church. In thanking me, they refer to me as her community Mom (and I cry). Or other dear friends who ask Jason and I to be godparents to their children. Such a humbling request and honor to be asked. So days that are too hard to put on hope, friends come along side us to help us put it on or to wear it for us. We feel like we hit the jack pot when it comes to “our people”.
Friends at church recently baptized their daughter. The tradition is for each parent to speak words over their child. As I listened to them, I realized when our time comes, I will not be able to say words. I’ll just be crying, with joy, that I would be in that position. Believing that will be me someday, is hope. I have to give myself grace on the days I find hope just too hard. I googled the definition of hope “a feeling of expectation and desire for a certain thing to happen.” Maybe I do have hope more than I think I do.