About Hope

I tend to remember everything.  More specifically, I remember almost every conversation, especially minor ones, that I have with people.  As of late I have learned not to bring up old conversations, because the speaker usually doesn’t remember saying the things that I remember.  But I digress.  

I once had a conversation with a good friend of mine, Aaron.  I was 2.5 years ago, and my mind was still pretty messed up.  I wasn’t sure how long I would be metaphorically “sticking around” then, but I had a little bit of a grasp of what I would do if I got through my ish.  I had an answer for everything, even in my brokenness.  I was pushing people away in a successful manner.  Throughout our conversation Aaron noticed something.  He then asked me where my hope was.  I had no answer.  I had no answer, because I had no hope.  Even though I was in Bible college, doing my best to follow a God who I felt was betraying me, I had no hope.  My hope was not in God, even though I desperately wanted it to be.  

Fast forward a few years to where I am right now.  For church on Sunday we made s’mores and had community time.  We separated into groups around the four separate campfires and we told God stories.  I had on my heart a need to share where I had been and how I got to where I am now.  I talked about how I had always had a plan, and now that I have no plan I am more content than I have been in a while.  My sharing sparked an ongoing conversation, and some prayer and some vulnerability.  One of my roommates, Gus, went on to point something out to me.  He said that it seemed that for a long time I have had no hope in my life.  When I had a plan, I had no hope.  But now, he said, I have an evident hope.  Even though I have no idea what my life holds, I have hope.  

So maybe when I have plans, I put my hope in them.  If I have learned anything in my life though, it’s that if I don’t get my hopes up, they can’t be let down.  Now that I have no plan, I cannot be let down.  My hope is in God’s plan, and not knowing what it is makes life a little bit more of an adventure.  And I want to be in love with adventure.


It’s all gone now

I sometimes wonder if we’re even friends anymore.  It seems that every time I reach out you put up a wall, like maybe I’m not good enough for you anymore.  It makes me wonder if my burden became too much to carry, and you decided it was too hard to be close to me.  Or even worse, that when it became easy you realized you weren’t up for the challenge.

You say I give up too easily, but I don’t want to keep trying anymore.  I will always give up.  If there is no evident end in sight, if there is no positive outcome, why should I keep going.  If I call out your name, if I show up in front of you, I feel like more of an annoyance than anything.  I tried to be transparent, but it’s like I’ve made myself invisible.

I don’t know how to open my mouth to tell you words that are weighing me down.  I never see you anymore, I can’t feel you anymore, and whenever I’m invited along, it’s when you know I can never come.  I’ll never be there.  You’ll never be there.  We are on opposite sides of the spectrum, heading in the same direction, but parallel so we’ll never actually meet.  And this might be too sad.

I know sometimes you read me like a book, but you’ll never realize the lines I’ve written are for you.  I need you to remember me again.  I need you to notice me again, because sometimes you were the only hope I lived for.  And I know I should never live for you, that I never really could live for you, because you give me nothing and I am nothing to you.  I know you would never live for me.  But I can hope.  I had hope.  And it’s all gone now.