Hope is present tense

Too hard.

I duck my head and close my eyes as another reminder crashes hard against my body.

Just when I think I’ve gotten some traction, gained some ground in learning to live with these great, gaping wounds of loss, another wave crashes.

Another and another and another.

My heart is tired.

Tired of living without the wisdom and love and silliness of my dad.

Tired of holding space for dear ones as the waves of loss crash over their lives, their families too.

Tired of the flashes that sneak their way, unbidden, into my thoughts. Into my dreams. Flashes of memory. Disease. Terror. Sleepless nights and restless days spent waiting.

We had hoped.

They walk along the road to Emmaus as a stranger comes alongside. All they can offer is the broken shards of hope, shards that cut deep into their hands. Into their hearts.

We had hoped he was the One.

They walk together, this stranger and his friends. He takes their shards of hope and weaves them into a bigger story.

Come in and eat with us.

The stranger sits at their table. Not arguing. Not rushing. Not telling them their hope has to feel a certain way. He walks. He sits. He eats.

And he still does, friends.

In those times when our hope feels like past tense. When its shards cut deep into our hands and our heart.

When we are angry at the sun for shining and the world for moving on and this ridiculous stranger for making us rehash the whole story one. more. time.

He still walks. And listens. And weaves our shards of hope into a bigger story if we dare to listen. He still sits at our table. Not arguing. Not rushing. Not telling us that our hope has to feel a certain way. Not ignoring reality or spewing platitudes or wiping tears that have every right to exist or shushing primal screams of anger that speak a truth all their own.

Just being. Alongside.

I do not know much, friends.

But this much I know.

Hope is present tense.

Walking and sitting still, though he may look like a stranger.

And we are not alone.