The things I hope for have changed through the years.
There were the hopes of my childhood:
I hope we go to the amusement park this weekend.
I hope my mother makes chocolate pudding for dessert.
I hope my friend feels better soon.
There were the hopes of my teenage years:
I hope he likes me.
I hope he’ll ask me to the dance.
I hope there’s no quiz in algebra today.
There were the hopes of my youth:
I hope I make a good impression.
I hope I make a difference some day.
I hope nobody finds out about this.
Now, there is the Hope of my daily life. A Hope born of grace and mercy and love and sacrifice; first in Christ, now through me, as a wife, as a mama, as a woman, as a writer. I hold it out and up and hold it fast because without it I would sink beneath the brokenness.
It is a Hope that burns in the dark valleys and the shadows of shame and guilt and doubt and fear.
It is a Hope that came as a gift more than 2000 years ago when God sent His Son into this broken and fallen and hurting world. It is a Hope born of blood and tears and agony and woven with the threads of Truth and pressed upon altars of stones and souls laid bare who have long waited in faith for the promises only Hope can bear upon its shoulders.
(This post is part of Kate Motaung’s Five-minute Friday at Heading Home. She gives us a word and we write for five minutes. This week’s word: Follow)