I’ve been thinking a lot about hope this week. For the obvious reasons, of course. For some other reasons, as well.
As I mentioned on Wednesday, I’ve spent this week, virtually, in California at a retreat with some of the most amazing women I’ve ever known.
Together, we set out on Legendary journeys. Each day had its own question. In her enthusiasm, our fearless leader mentioned the last question – today’s question – on Thursday, I think.
What does your soul long to express?
I knew the answer immediately.
HOPE!
I’ve known this at some level for a while now. Probably since my girls came along. Hence my book, Grandmothers Are In Charge Of Hope.
And hope is a familiar notion for many pastors. At least those of the tribe I tend to hang with.
I’ve been carting an index card around for a couple of days now. There it is, in big letters… HOPE!
Just between us, this has been something of a challenging week on that front, in the afraid-to-hope kind of way.
I burst into sobs of relief when Bill found me getting ready to go back to California for the day and announced that Pennsylvania had been called for Joe Biden. And I, who have been news-avoidant for several years, have been glued to CNN, torn between wanting to take to the street with the dancing rejoicers and praying that they’re not sharing the Covid virus with their joy.
I used to be a nurse.
Eventually, I took a break from CNN and turned back to my Legendary self. That’s when I remembered. My clown name was Hope.
An explanation is clearly in order.
In the mid ’80’s, before I entered Columbia Theological Seminary to study for the ordained ministry, I did some work with a youth pastor in Florida who led a troupe of clown ministers.
Well, actually they were teenagers, willing to be, in a very real sense of the phrase, fools for Christ.
I remember helping with make-up lessons one weekend. Each clown learned to put a small red teardrop beneath the outer corner of their left eye as a symbol of the love of Yeshua.
And we each chose names. Back in those days when I was a mostly-broke single mom about to embark on a road I couldn’t imagine, I chose Hope. (Or, perhaps, Hope chose me.)
I remembered that today.
It feels, in many ways, like a good day for that.
It also feels like a good time to realize that many things are possible and not all of them would make good sense.
Which, at the risk of being redundant, may be why we hope in the first place.
And also in the last.
ps… Channeling my British ancestors, for just a moment, may God save Joe Biden and Kamala Harris. And all of us.
pps… The painting is clearly suffering through new visionary encounters requiring, well, editing but she graciously agreed to appear, teardrop and all.