When you’ve just buried your hope…

It was late, too late, when Jeff brought me the letter. I was already in bed, blurry-eyed, exhausted from a full day and our Good Friday service. But I’d been waiting so long for this letter, he knew I’d want to see.

I blinked. That can’t be right… Jeff could read my face without even seeing the paper. I just shook my head. This can’t be… 

But there it was. Plain as day.

I took a deep breath and refolded the letter, placing it on the nightstand, putting the whole ordeal out of sight. So many other things of more import in this world.  I picked up Uncle Tom’s Cabin instead. Entering another’s plight, even mentally, always brings perspective.

The kind master, St. Clare, had just been killed in a freak accident, mere moments before following through on his promise to legally free Tom. In the span of several hours, Tom goes from the certainty of freedom–of reuniting with his wife and children after years apart, of being able to work for wages and buy their freedom, of a future and hope and the end of slavery … to standing on an auction block like a head of cattle, horrified as he’s sold to the cruelest of slave-holders, Simon Legree, who sees his slaves as disposable property, to be worked into their graves. At this point we are at least 3/4 of the way through the book, and Tom has become our hero. We want nothing more than to see him set free … and in moments, all the years of hoping and praying, all the work doing what is right, all the hours investing in the promise of freedom … gone.

Hope, buried.

And even though it’s nothing in comparison to Tom’s plight, I pull the covers over my face and sob that same sorrow of bitter disappointment, of feeling foolish and stupid and what a waste all these years have been. What a waste all the hours, all the time, all the energy and agony of pouring heart out in pen to paper and nothing’s changed but everything’s changed because this silly paper feels like the death of a dream and the verdict of “WASTE” pronounced over my most precious offering.

And I know it won’t even make sense to most people but what do you do when your dream dies?

As my beloved friend buried her son this past year, another precious honest soul whispered, “There goes our miracle, into the ground.”

And it was not lost on me, of course, that this was Good Friday. That untold numbers of hope-filled followers stood horrified as the Light of the World was extinguished right before their very eyes. That the whole earth went dark. That disciples scattered, wild with grief and confusion. That Peter must have experienced grief and guilt and shame compounded beyond our wildest imagination. I cannot fathom his despair … How can this be? 

And as I opened my eyes this morning, Holy Saturday, I thought of them, those disciples, who must have woken the next morning blurry-eyed and wondered with slowly sinking-in horror, “Did yesterday really happen? Is Jesus really dead? Is our hope really buried in the ground?”

Foolish. Stupid.

I can only imagine how they felt. They’d left all to follow Jesus. Their jobs, their homes, their livelihood, their reputation and friends and all they’d ever known, to follow this King Jesus, the promised Messiah, who now… was dead.

What a waste these years have been.

They went home, bewildered. Believing? I don’t know.

Thankfully, the Bible doesn’t give us sketches of perfect people, but rather real ones. Ones with doubts and disappointments, fears and failures.

The truth is, I’m Peter denying and Thomas doubting and James & John jockeying for position. I’m the collective complexities of all the disciples and HALLELUJAH for that because there’s hope for me too. And for you.

The resurrection happened, historically, once, and it happens, spiritually, often. What we thought, hoped, dreamed of, dies. We reel, wild-eyed, or shrink back, disillusioned and bitterly disappointed.

But all that is of Jesus will be raised to life. Every soul that is in Him, every heart that hopes in Him, every dream that’s rooted in Him, every purpose that’s poured forth from Him.

It’ll all be raised.

So what’s our part? To hold on. To trust that whatever was buried will rise. Not to let our hearts grow calloused or cold, but to feel and live and learn and get busy being the resurrection power of someone else’s buried hope. What sorrow can we alleviate for others? What burden can we lift? What prayer may be answered if we took our eyes off self and served the aching world around? For me? Today? Reading Uncle Tom’s Cabin, perusing my 6K for Water packet, visiting my cancer-battling neighbor and my other 85-year-old suffering neighbor, printing off another petition sheet to save the unborn, preparing to worship our RISEN KING tomorrow.

The enemy would want nothing more than to hole you up, shut you down, stay your hand, keep you bound.

Get busy being the resurrection power on behalf of others.

You may find your hope rising as well. 

{Thanks for reading.}