Hello Hope

Advent Letters to Light

Hello Hope,

My grandma told me the best way to get a letter is to send one. So, I write expectantly.

It was a dreary Sunday. The first week of Advent. The sanctuary beautifully decorated. Next to the baptismal font a big wreath with 4 candles. Three purple and one pink. Oh, and a white one in the middle. There were special readings. Voices singing,

Light one candle for hope...one bright candle for hope...

I was curiously consumed. Where had you come from? Where had you been? Was this your birth or the moment we awakened to your presence? How could just one candle cast so much light?

Church taught where hope was found. In Mary, expecting child, singing to the life in her womb. In facing fears and encountering angels like Joseph, Elizabeth, and Zachariah. In knocking on the door of the inn despite signs saying there was no room. In Jesus born in the unlikely manger.

I knew places where you could be found, but I didn’t know who you were. Experience teaches me what church did not. You aren't simply a location. Hope, you are the presence that illuminates all spaces. I knew you for years without knowing your name.

You were there that night as I sat at a desk in a cold hospital room. The lights off, but the space brightly lit.  I thought I was writing by the light of the moon, but now I know it was you. At that time, you were the lone light in my existence. By your glow and warmth, I wrote a letter to myself that was also a prayer to God. Processing the words of a doctor who said I was too sick to be fixed. Seeking strength for one more day. Imagining life as more than endless cycles of depression and hospitalizations. A lament of all the pain, a cry for healing, a litany of possibility, a song of new birth. A glimmering ember igniting a different path.

In the morning I told the doctor, "I hope to be home by Sunday. I'm gonna figure out how to live or die trying."

You’ve been with me through it all. In the most unusual classrooms, you teach me that hope is not the opposite of fear, but the ability to face it. Hope is the wool scarf that keeps us as we endure lonely, cold, starless nights. Hope is the hay that grounds us when unexpected guests arrive at the foot of our bed with hard to believe messages. Hope is the creative spark inspiring us to imagine living when our life is labeled broken beyond repair. Hope is the siren calling us to step out when our current situation is diagnosed inescapable.

You teach me that faith and hope are related yet distinct. If faith is believing in what I cannot imagine, then hope is imagining what the world believes is impossible.  

The world is hurting, creation is crying, the earth is literally burning. Everyday a repeated cycle of notifications alerting us to more trauma, violence, and despair. It’s like they want us to believe goodness, peace, and justice are impossible. It's hard not to be afraid. Easy to dismiss hope as delusion. I can still hear the doctor laughing as he said, "I'll discharge you, but you'll be back."

Some claim hope to be exclusively Christian, reserved for those who hold particular beliefs about Jesus and his birth. Experience teaches me that hope is always there and is for everyone, beaming brightest when needed most. When grief and illness overwhelm our body and spirit. When skeptics urge us to give in. When cynicism rises. When apathy and indifference seem the only way to survive. When we are ready to resign to the seemingly insurmountable evils of this life.

Hope you are a presence. A sacred, holy light. Radiating brilliantly, generating energy, motivating change. When we light your candle we are not bringing you to life, rather we are calling upon the power of your presence to transform ours.

You teach us that expectation is rooted in the possible. Who says, I hope it doesn’t snow tomorrow unless snow is possibly in the forecast? Who tells a doctor, let me go so I can live without the expectation that living is possible?

With gratitude for your presence and for expectant possibility. And for grandmas who teach the wonder and miracles of letter writing.

Rebecca & 10 Camels

Above is your invitation to consider the presence of hope. If you’d like to share your experience of hope, comment here. Or (if you are a subscriber) you can email me directly at 10camels@substack.com. I will write back.

If your Advent Invitation Letter got lost in the mail, click here for Dear Wonderer.