Pictures of Hope

Hope is one of our central emotions, but we are often at a loss when asked to define it.  Many of us confuse hope with optimism, a prevailing attitude that "things turn out for the best." But hope differs from optimism.

Hope does not arise from being told to "think positively," or from hearing an overly rosy forecast.  Hope, unlike optimism, is rooted in unalloyed reality. 

Hope is the elevating feeling we experience when we see - in the mind's eye - a path to a better future.  Hope acknowledges the significant obstacles and deep pitfalls along that path.  True hope has no room for delusion.  Clear-eyed, hope gives us the courage to confront our circumstances and the capacity to surmount them.

~ from The Anatomy of Hope by Jerome Groopman, M.D.

I took the photo above during a particularly cold morning walk into the school to pick up my son.  Taken on my ipod, the quality is questionable...  it's impossible to see the frost that coated the branches or the snow crystals reflecting the light in this photo.  Even though it does not appear so in this image, in my mind's eye, it truly was a thing of beauty.  

With my ipod in hand, permit me to share the following ~ a picture journal from tonight:

Thank You and Thursdays

The hot cup of coffee, 

an answered prayer;

A kindred spirit sharing laughter 

in the midst of loss;

The symbolism of something greater 

in the most simplest of forms.

The choices we make - 

choosing joy, choosing peace;

Scraps of memories rediscovered 

though distance separates;

The kind gesture 

of a beautiful heart.

These are the things,

and this is the stuff...

Surrounded by love,

rooted in grace ~

the Blessing of

Immeasurably more.  

Still

When I came home from the salon Thursday, my eldest son said: "you look like you looked as a teenager... but better!".

Needless to say, he got the biggest brownie at dessert.

How am I doing?  Well.  Really well.  Although my medical condition has not improved, I have decided that my assessment of how I am doing is rooted more in how I am living.

In some ways, my health experience has felt like a House episode playing out over months instead of 40 minutes.  The episode isn't over yet.  The interesting thing about this condition is that, for all intents and purposes, it remains invisible and a complex mystery for the medical community to unravel.

So I'm going to let them.  Don't get me wrong, I am an active participant in pursuing my health care - I am very engaged in the process.  However, through a lengthy process, providential intervention, an amazing physician who has been actively pursuing all possibilities, and - most importantly - faith, I am finally earnestly confident in my care.

And in the waiting, the true surrender to waiting, the pivot occurred.  Peripetia happened in my heart, not in my situation.  

I am no longer analyzing, researching or assessing.  Instead, I am fascinated by where this journey has led me.  In reading In the Likeness of God, I am having revelation after revelation about the phenomenal way humans are formed.  As in the journeys I was fortunate to take in pregnancy, this illness can be an opportunity for learning, discovering and appreciating the miracle of the human body.

"Men go abroad to wonder 
at the height of mountains, 
at the huge waves of the sea, 
at the long courses of the rivers, 
at the compass of the ocean, 
at the circular motion of the stars, 
and they pass by themselves without wondering." 


~ St. Augustine.    

My perspective has also turned to the understand that there are positive effects to be celebrated even in the situations where we are - if not just seasonally - metaphorically in the dark. The study of scotobiology is the study of darkness.  It is a relatively new field of science and it "lays the foundation for understanding the importance of dark night skies, not only for humans but for all biological species."  Scotobiology is the study of the positive responses to darkness.  As described in the link, darkness is seldom absolute.

I will give you the treasures of darkness, riches stored in secret places, so that you may know that I am the LORD, the God of Israel, who summons you by name. ~Isaiah 45:3

This is about a new focus.

I'm not putting on the blinders.  Besides being impossible when facing physical pain, it just doesn't seem in character with my desire to be authentic.  Instead I am changing the way I look at things.  I've thought about it in the way of blurring my peripheral vision by wearing my glasses instead of my contacts.  In needing to shift focus, I need to move in a new direction... away from the unknowns and towards the known.  

As a wise mentor of mine told me yesterday morning, there is the ability to serve even in moments such as this.

This is about the kind of faith that can change your life.  This is a good thing.

Yes, I "will stil haf to wait"; all the same,
I am still seeking joy.
I am still living out my life.
I am still being used by God.
I am still.
I know He is God.

Peripetia

Trust your unknown future to a known God

Shared by an amazing source of encouragement, this quote has stuck with me.  I don't think any of us quite comprehend the uncertainty of the future until we face something big.

I met a coworker at the lab during one of my bloodwork appointments.  I had not seen her since my college days ended in 2010 and in the course of the conversation, she asked what I had been doing since we had last seen each other.  I tried to quickly come up with a summary of my journey... and since the timeline started with the arrival of the twins, there seemed to be a lot to catch up on.  I came home and asked my husband how he would sum it up.  He replied, "the pain, the pain - it hurts!" (this made me laugh - and still can bring a smile - particularly since he knows me so well by leaving room for me to add the punctuation).

A week ago Saturday found me in a place of set back with my condition - "the pain, the pain - it hurts!".  And in this place I realized once again how fragile I am.

How quickly I had forgotten.

I am thankful that the intensity of the pain has lessened to an ebb and flow of uncomfortable pressure.  All the same, I am frustrated by my lack of energy and the persistence of a medical condition which I cannot understand.

***

"Understanding will never bring you peace that is why I've instructed you to trust me.  Humans have a voracious appetite to figure things out to have a mastery of our lives.  We need to cease seeking mastery and start seeking our Master." [paraphrased from Sarah Young "Jesus Calling: Seeking Peace in His Presence"].

This quote comes from a phenomenal sermon in the E100 series at SPAC.  The timing of listening to this sermon (and I can say the same for the School of Faith) couldn't have been more perfect.  There are seasons in your life where "the weary days of waiting are often days that are big with spiritual destiny but they are hard to be endured." (F. B Meyer)

In these weary days of waiting - days where I feel like I've been hit by a train and am therefore am incapacitated in so many ways - I wage war with my emotions. I'm feeling the vertigo from the swing from the depths of regret to the heights of gratefulness.

***

Regret: I feel inclined to apologise.  Without a doubt, it's in my nature to apologise.  This time, the scope has a trajectory which goes a little further from that where I say "I'm sorry" when all that was needed was a polite "excuse me" as I let someone pass in the grocery aisle.

In the way I'd like to voice my regrets, I want to apologise for all those times that I haven't been able to be or be there for those who I care so much about.  I feel compelled to apologise to my husband, my young sons, my family by birth, my family by heart, and my amazing friends - for the impact of burden or of absence.  My physical condition has left me - for months - at a capacity of doing so little.  

The old version of 'me' was fueled by an energy (and, undeniably, a hot cup of strong coffee) that allowed me to swing my children into my arms, into their carseats on the way to a play excursion, and into a variety of activities that we enjoyed together.  That old version could go and do and experience.  My abilities limited, my geography restrained, I am finding joy in doing, going and experiencing within these four walls - within this ministry to my boys.

Nevertheless, coming to terms with the physical and emotional transition by accepting that I am still in one peace has been nothing less than an exercise of faith.

And, in faith, I am waiting for my peripetia.

***

Gratefulness: Already fragile, it is incredibly humbling to (yet again) accept the help that I have received from friends who have given so much while they've delegated their own tasks to come to my aid.  From going above and beyond the call of friendship to practical nurturing of my boys, these women have demonstrated an unending source of the fruit of the spirit for us.  They have cared for me, my children and my house when I have been infirm and recovering.

All the same, it is hard for an independent mother who enjoys caring for others to be on the receiving end of kindnesses, given all the kindness we've been blessed with.  From the  arrival of the twins to the beginning of this recovery, we have had love lavished on us in a thousand ways.  I grapple with my pride as much as with my weakness - my gratefulness is never eclipsed by my desire to give back; however, there are times where I am brought to tears by the goodness gift wrapped to us in the forms of gestures that mean so much.

As I have mentioned in a previous post, how can I even begin to thank them for their immeasurable kindness?

Perhaps even more beautiful than their compassion is their ability to illustrate Christianity in action to my young sons; each has poured out love in an intensely personal way to our family.

***

In one of those moments that I just needed a bit of encouragement, my current Beth Moore study guide fell open to the second last page of my book.  There I found this quote written by an unknown author:

I believe in the sun, even when it is not shining.
I believe in love, even when I do not feel it.
I believe in God, even when He is silent.

I don't understand this medical condition; I don't understand grief or loss; and most importantly, what I don't understand outweighs what I do understand.  I have grown on this journey with a new understanding of gratefulness, thankfulness, and blessings as much as I have been growing in an understanding of regret, pain, and limitations.

Perhaps the most significant understanding - and the best summary of my journey - is this:

I believe.