I have always associated a picture of a light shining in a deep darkness with the word “hope”. It was a crystal clear beacon into the night. Hope was an against-all-odds, joyful hallelujah. It was something to cling to, something to hang your hat on when all was awry.
Recently, hope has been hurting.
For almost a year, we had hoped that E would begin to catch up. That she would start meeting her milestones in order, and at a more rapid pace. Instead, we were referred to a developmental pediatrician. When we finally got an appointment with said pediatrician, we had simply hoped for some advice on how to direct her therapies. Instead, she ordered genetic testing. While we waited for E’s genetic results, we hoped it would show nothing, so that we could begin to explore other maintainable avenues for her. When we got E’s results and consequential diagnosis, we hoped that it was simply a “fluke”, called de novo where a genetic syndrome pops up out of nowhere, not because of anything found in the parents’ genetics. We hoped and prayed in a way we have never hoped and prayed before that E’s syndromes were de novo. This would mean that there was little to no likelihood of reoccurrence, and that we could continue to have children. Instead, this week we were told that one of our genetics does show the reason/cause for E’s syndromes. More biological children can no longer be something we hope for.
It would be very easy to insert a, “But my hope is in Christ and all is well!”, and end my post right there. Smiley face sticker stamped on, move onto some cat videos.
But I cannot.
My hope is in Christ. It is in all He has shown Himself to be in our lives, the knowledge of the hope He has set before us: the hope of Heaven, where all will be perfect and all will truly be well. The hope that He has already overcome the world, whether it be famine or Phelan.
Recently, my hope in Christ is also paired with another rugged sort of hope. A hurt-filled hope. A weary hope in a world where all is not well. A hope that comes with a deep, throbbing ache I feel at an almost physical level: the desire, the absolute need for something good.
That good, that bright hope, is coming soon, it is just around the bend I am sure. It will shine brightly in the dark night, the ache will subside, and the joyful hallelujah will spring from my lips.