Hope Deferred

Often times, after a change (big or small), I find there’s a let-down. There’s anticipation of something new and different in the turn of the ordinary into something new, and once it’s come…..well, there’s nothing actually new about it at all. It’s the same town, the same past, the same you, the same me, the same life of mine that has the same habits and disappointments as ever. The kids are going to school. That is new! Surely I will find myself in this. Surely there will be meaning here. We will get to know our neighbors, our town, and their needs. We will find fulfillment and purpose. There will arise beauty and meaning from our efforts. The Big Move will be redeemed. The suffering will feel purposeful. 

Then, as we move through the adjustments of the change and there is no longer distraction from just the movements of getting children from here to there, the dreaded truth begins to seep through. Nothing is new. Nothing has been redeemed yet, after all. The purpose I so earnestly seek slips through my fingers once again. There is superfluous homework. No one wants to practice the piano. There is still not enough money.  There is no time for neighbors. There is still a rush to get dinner to the table and children to bed every night.The old overtakes the hope of the new. Underneath the new activities and newly quiet days, the disappointment seeps in again. Still not there. Still not yet glorious. 

I take on a house project. I scrape, I polish, I paint, I drag furniture from corners into other corners. I gaze, I soak it in, I observe. The house looks momentarily promising. But then it fades. I look out the window. It is still Virginia. It is still my Home of Sorrow. The people are still here, and they are still broken. The relationships are still sour and the people still must be treated with gingerly-typed text messages, and scripted phone calls. I remember all of the past sadness and grief that lives here for me, and I think, This is not the place I want to raise my children. I do not want my home to be Virginia. 

Any attempt to “start fresh” and build something of my Dream Castle results in shortages: of relationships, of beauty, of skill, of peace, of accomplishment…..it is all deferred over and over again. And “Hope deferred makes the heart sick.”

Don’t get me wrong, I well-know the promise of hope in Christ in the future. I firmly believe that all the deferred hope I experience here on earth in relationships and home and possessions will be fully completed and satisfied in our home-to-be in Glory, and the appetites we have for feasting with friends and celebrating good things will be satiated at the Table of the Lord in Glory. But in the meantime, there is this thing called “heartsickness” that I suffer from. How do I get the promise of Glory to touch the repeated disappointments and lift my eyes from sorrow? How do I just get up in the morning and do All the Things while my hopes lie in a dormant state? My heart feels sick, laid low. I feel too many of my hopes are told, “Not yet.” My longing for church fellowship, for worship, for discipling friendships, for community, for Christ-centered marriage, for physical healing, for giving good things to my children, for ministry (telling/showing others the gospel). 

At the center of it all there is this sense that “I had it once, and I lost it.” When I think of the small group in Olympia, I find myself unable to let it go. It is as if it must be returned-to, or I will never be happy again. My heart has told itself “it was too precious to give up, but we did give it up, and now we will never have it again.” and I cannot stop staring at that address in Lacey, 3000 miles away. The grief of the loss of Home and Community in Olympia is great. And there is nothing to replace it that is shiny enough, happy enough, peaceful enough, or full of enough joy or meaning or satisfaction that it could ever outshine what “used to be”. 

So, day to day, I wander into my morning rather heavily, looking for whatever feels meaningful, bright, restorative, productive, or even holy, always looking for a way to redeem that great Loss. I don’t really have a Grand Plan for my life, I find myself rather tossed from task to task, as each one presents itself to me with “more meaning” or “more delight” or “more intimacy”. It is difficult to press onward towards something with one-mindedness when I know that everything I choose to throw myself into will eventually reveal itself to be, like all the rest, faded, unworthy, lacking, or even sinister. What does a mother of four with a tormented past throw herself into in a 1970’s home in the old neighborhood, with all the old people, old ways, and old demands? How does she bring hope of the New Kingdom into her life and the lives of her children when the past clings with its memories of old delights far away, and old demons close at hand? How do you treat heartsickness from deferred hope? How do you preach good news to a woman who has no hope for a happy future in this life in this town? If you are looking at a Life Sentence, what do you tell yourself daily?

Elizabeth Eliot said, “Do the next thing” as a way to walk through valleys of shadow. That is partly helpful for me, but also can be a trap. There are so MANY “next things” to do in my position. The children eat 4 times a day. There is ALWAYS a kitchen to clean. There are myriads of projects to restore this home. Homeschool begins next week. There is someone to read to, listen to, clean up, discipline, or comfort at every moment of every day. But I also find that I lose myself in these things so far that I am consumed by them all. I need to retreat away from the “Needs” and the “next things” in order to hear my own griefs and preach to them a little. Doing the next thing for me often turns into “I’m on a chain gang just doin’ time.” It becomes in itself a way of darkness, a Valley of  Shadow for me. Just doing the next thing gets me quickly from breakfast to dinner, without a trace of thought of the Holy or Meaningful. Then, by mid-week, things like, conflict, grief, sin, and haunting memories will take me by surprise and make me think that “This is it for now.” There is nothing redeemed yet. There is only this Shadowland to dwell in, where laundry folded is replaced by laundry dirtied, and people keep the same habits of suspicion and complaining, and no one lifts their hands in church. 

A dear friend introduced me to a book of everyday liturgies called, “Every Moment Holy”. In it, there is a liturgy for “Feasting with Friends.” It has this line in it:

“May this shared meal, and our pleasure in it,

Bear witness against the artifice and deceptions

Of the prince of the darkness that would blind

This world to hope.

May it strike at the root of the lie that would drain life of meaning, and

The world of joy, and suffering of redemption.

May this, our feast fall like a great hammer blow

Against that brittle night,

Shattering the gloom, reawakening our hearts,

Stirring our imaginations, focusing our vision

On the kingdom of heaven that is to come,

On the kingdom that is promised,

On the kingdom that is already,

Indeed, among us,

For the resurrection of all good things

Has already joyfully begun.”

There is something new to me in this. Before reading this, I had never thought of approaching the shadowy valleys in the evenings with fork and roasting pan as my weapons. But there is something very battle-y about finishing up a dreary week of work and disappointing relationships and buckling the children into the car, nestling dishes of roasted carrots and parsnips and pears into warm towels, and driving off down the road to clink glasses with friends over laughter and stories….ANYWAY! As if to say to the darkness, “You may have won this round, but the weekend approaches, and here I have prepared my pot roast and buttery mashed potatoes, and chosen my cabernets, and my friends and I will feast and laugh ANYWAY! For, sure as the morning, He has won the BATTLE! Haha!”

Merely doing the “next things” cannot really tell the story of what is to come. There must be Heralds, there must be declarations over the darkness. One cannot simply meander into the next thing or the next day just waiting for the arrival of the Resurrection. Heaping deferred hope upon deferred hope will land you in a pile of sadness.

In C.S. Lewis’ “The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe” Father Christmas is the herald of the coming of Aslan. First he appears, bringing gifts to everyone, then the spring begins, and finally Aslan Himself appears.

“I’ve come at last,” said he. “She has kept me out for a long time, 

but I have got in at last. Aslan is on the move. 

The Witch’s magic is weakening.” 

Later in the story, we come upon a small gathering of Narnian animals, feasting in the melting snow, having been gifted with rich and delicious foods by Father Christmas, as well. This image of a prepared table of delights in the middle of a snowy wood (still probably full of spies on the Witch’s side) is a powerful image for me. The almost aggressive, and certainly determined way a party is set up in the open like this is evidence of a great trust the animals have in the coming of their True King. They even went so far as to risk and even lose their lives (for a short time) to demonstrate their belief in a “soon-coming” restoration of their world. They struck out at the darkness with Merriment and Feasting. And this is the kind of radical trust that will not just get you through the day, but will get you through the years. 

This winter, I have begun to put this into practice in my home. The winter evenings are long and the darkness, often combined with humidity, ice, and rain, is pretty thick. As it creeps into my living room, I turn on the lights. My bluetooth speaker begins to play something warm and celebratory, like smooth jazz, where you can almost hear the clink of forks and glasses between sax solos and sultry French phrases. I carefully choose major keys and light-hearted messages on my playlist. I pour a glass of wine or hot tea to sip on as I get out my knives, roasting pans, and good olive oils. A plate of cheese and olives sits on my buffet, and I taste a little of that goodness as I chop and stir and toss and sear. The children tidy up and anticipate a short time of television to distract them a little before dinner so their appetites don’t drive them into the kitchen to circle underfoot like buzzards looking for carrion.  My soul begins to feast in this hour of preparation before I have sat down to taste the Good Things from God. My kitchen and my food are like Bastions of Promise, shining out against the darkness, heralding the soon-to-come restoration of the World, the end of Sorrow, the Wedding Supper of the Lamb. 

“Take Joy!

All will be well!

Nothing good and right and true will be lost forever.

All good things will be restored.

Feast and be reminded! Take joy, Little Flock.

Take joy! Let battle be joined!

Let battle be joined!”