Last year, I would go on frequent walks around the neighbourhood with one of our tenants. Let’s call her Susan. At the time of this story, Susan was recently sober. I distinctly remember her saying that she was “seeing colours again.”
There’s lots I could say about Susan – here’s the short version:
Susan taught me something significant about hope. It was in a story she shared about her counsellor.
Susan painted the picture for me. Her counsellor was persistent, caring, and accepting. Susan spoke about going into her meetings with this counsellor for years with certain postures – sometimes apathy, sometimes reluctance, and other times, defeat. During this time, Susan experienced loss after loss – again and again.
In one of these conversations, her counsellor did what she had done well – she acknowledged all that was going on in Susan’s life, validated it, and did not try to fix it. Susan’s counsellor sat with her on the edge—amidst the tragedy, darkness, and horror. Susan’s counsellor honoured the heartbreak in Susan’s past, present, and all that was to come in the future.
And,
As Susan was headed for the door, she had said, “I will hold onto hope for you.”
I, like all of you, am well versed in the devastation we can experience in our lives. Losses we cannot predict. Diagnoses we continue to battle. Relationships we see shatter into a thousand broken pieces. Systems we experience and witness as ineffective and inhumane.
And there are the daily micro-moments that run havoc in our lives and souls. Alone, they may be small and seem insignificant. Yet, they accumulate. A moment of humiliation and all you want to do is isolate. Your child comes home from school full of tears —the first time they have been bullied. A misunderstanding with a friend that slowly eats away at you. Your inner voice is relentless and unforgiving, plunging you further into shame. The list goes on.
And somehow – maybe in an office with a counsellor, a walk with a friend, or watching two other people interact – we remember we are not alone. We have someone in our life who holds onto hope for us. Sometimes, we know their name and they know ours. Other times, we may be holding hope for complete strangers; sometimes strangers are doing the same for us.
At Advent, we remember the birth of Jesus — the one who suffers and waits with us… those of us with no hope, and those of us bubbling to the brim with hope. Those of us who cannot hold hope for ourselves and those of us who are holding hope for multiple people, multiple communities.
Jesus meets us — comes close to us. Invites us into community. That is the hope.
Our hope is not far off — not somewhere beyond the horizon and out of reach. But rather, our hope is in this backwards, upside-down kingdom. One where hope is actually in the waiting, in being in proximity to one another… in modeling the person of Jesus — we hold onto hope for each other when some of us simply cannot.
This Advent season may you know that there is always someone holding and offering hope for you. And may you hold hope for others.
