In my office, above the double doors, I have two metal words hung up: "Love" and "Hope". Last week, out of nowhere, "Hope" fell and just landed on the carpet, staring at me as I sat nearby at my computer chair.
And on the tail-end of an incredibly difficult two weeks, I confess to you this: I sighed.
Loudly.
Why me? Why did "hope" have to fall down on the ground again? Isn't it always like that, though? We think that we are finally on a roll of life and in the swing of living, when all of a sudden the rug is swooshed out from under us and we're left wondering, "Um, I didn't sign up for this. Hope, can you please get back up where you belong?"
I left it laying there - I'm not sure why. I passed by it for several days, thinking about my recently fallen hope and I didn't notice the incredibly obvious truth that was literally right there in front of me. On my carpet, by the newly painted blue walls.
Hope.
A friend pointed it out to me when I told her the story. She said that she didn't see that hope had fallen at all.
She said that hope had made itself known to me.
And, indeed, it had. Because everyday that I saw that word on my floor (much, much more often than I would have seen it hanging above my door), I was reminded of the word. In the midst of every morning, every afternoon and every evening...there it was. Making itself known. Seen. Tangible -- even as just a word.
Hope itself wouldn't let me forget that that hope exists.
Even if I don't see it.
Or understand it.
Or expect it.
It's easy to focus on the rain or the storm. It's easy to focus on the trial and lose sight that someday, prayerfully...this too shall pass and once again, light will prevail. It always has and always will. So will justice - even if it's not on this side of Heaven.
Hope.
Once again, truth trumps feelings.
And in the pale blue office, with books, a mug of steaming coffee, piles of paperwork and a woman with brown hair tossed into a pony tail, I write about that very word.
Hope.
Beautiful, real hope.
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