The Importance of Hope

As someone who loves words, I appreciate when I learn a nuance that I didn’t know before. A few years ago I discovered that our word “hope” has a distinction in ancient languages that it does not have in English.

In two thousand year old Greek, hope means more than desire; it also means confident expectation.

For us, “hope” is often equivalent to “wish.” I find myself saying, “I hope you have a great weekend” or “I hope that test/project/conversation/flight/paper/drive/vacation/lunch goes well.”

If “wish” is all that is meant in hope, what good is it? Why would hope be something we have any use for?

Instead, I want to change my language. I want to say “wish” when I mean wish, and I want to say “hope” when I mean I believe something is possible.

You see, I struggle with cynicism. Strike that, I don’t struggle with it; I embrace it. Perhaps the better statement is, cynicism is a big part of my life. I tend to think that someone already drank the water, because that glass is certainly half empty. Hope is so important because it indicates a belief that something is possible. When I relegate hope to merely meaning “wish,” I remove the importance of the word. I remove its power to make me believe that the improbable is possible and that the extraordinary could become reality. When hope is just desire, I’m only telling you what I want. But when hope becomes belief in the future, that gives me a new lens to see the world around me.

Hope is just a word, one for me to use however I wish; but hope feels different than mere desire.

Culmination

Recently, I ran a half marathon. It’s not a giant accomplishment (and certainly not a full marathon, which a friend ran that same day) but it’s not something I ever thought I’d do.

I bring this up mostly because it required me training for a few months. I committed to running three times per week for about four months to get ready.

Normally, as someone who detests running, I would make excuses for why today wasn’t a great day to run. It’s too rainy, I have a long day at work ahead of me, I’d rather make some bacon for breakfast…reasons to avoid running are easy for me to find. In the past, when I intended to run for general fitness and not training for an event, I often skipped workouts simply because I wasn’t in the mood.

But in preparing for this race, I was pleasantly surprised at how few training runs I missed. I would get up earlier than normal, strap on my shoes and head out into what was usually frigid morning air.

When I crossed the finish line after 13 miles, I realized this was the culmination of lots of effort. Don’t get me wrong, every time I ran in preparation I knew this was something that required effort. But it was the sense of culmination that was unexpected. It seems that most things in my life that entail preparation are small. Even my grad school, which will take years, seems small because I think of it in 10-week chunks. Most projects at work require a few weeks of planning. There is little in my life that has so much buildup before a final, peak moment.

I could choose to be disappointed in this realization; I could decide that it’s not worth putting in so much time for something that is over so quickly.

Instead, I choose to see those four months as more valid. I surprised myself with my commitment to training; I think I learned something valuable about the preparation process. By committing myself to something with a clear culmination, I found fulfillment in both the process and the end. In one sense, the preparation is actually more meaningful that the final moment. This was more long-term than most things in my life; I need to have less instant gratification and more delayed value because that teaches me to develop in the midst of the process.

Really, the only question for me is “What is my next commitment?”

Conversion Moment

I never had a “conversion moment.” I know many Christians who had a profound moment when they suddenly became aware of their belovedness and made a decision to follow Jesus, but that’s not my story. I grew up going to church and lived invested in that community. I never stepped into a new relationship with Jesus; it seemed to me that I’d grown up knowing Him.

Rather than a stark moment of change, instead I had a day that upped the ante. Previously, it’s like we waded through streams together and I was fine getting through the water. It was shallow and slow and I had no trouble sliding my feet along the smooth rocks.

On this day, we arrived at a rushing river. In my anxiety about navigating the flood, God told me He would make sure I wasn’t swept away. Did I believe that was true? I knew no other truth. And I knew I wasn’t strong enough to forge the river.

So I told Him that I needed Him to walk downstream of me to prevent me from being swept away and upstream of me to protect me from the debris.

I fought through the currents, thrashing wildly and trying to keep my head above water. Sometimes in the midst of that flailing, I brushed up against sharp rocks and rammed into God because He was the closest thing within reach. Because of the splashing, I couldn’t see what was trying to help me and what was trying to hurt me. In those spinning moments, it all seemed an enemy to me.

Finally, the bank came within view. The water shallowed and calmed.

He and I came out together on the other side, sopping wet and definitely worse for wear. But we were holding one another to keep warm and forever bonded by the adventure of fearfully traversing the waters.

What’s your story?