Learning about Hope

I look out the window a lot. It’s nothing new, I’ve been doing it most of my life. It’s not something I do out of boredom, perhaps with the exception of Mr. Kopel’s 10th grade algebra class. I look out the window because there is light or there is darkness. Both have its lessons.

When I was a kid, I would move the shade aside to peek out the window. Just after dawn the lake was like a mirror. Pine trees were reflected in the water; our old wooden row boat was painted on the surface of the water; it was magical to me. I would sneak downstairs and sit out on the porch. Gradually the light became brighter, the mirror image of the lake disappeared and another day had begun.

It’s how I learned about hope.

I’m not sure I knew how to name it at the time, but there was something profound touching my being as I watched night melt into day. Even on the cloudy days when I couldn’t see the sun, there was light. It fascinated me in my being, not just in my head. For millions of years this ball of fire has gifted its light to the earth. Day after day after day it shines, more predictable than just about anything else. 

Every morning the sun gently pushes down the night and tells it to wait its turn. Every evening the night reaches out to draw down the sun; it has waited its turn. This rhythm is a reminder to me that nothing lasts forever. It is an insight that holds great joy and great sadness.

In times marked by unbearable struggle, profound depression, catastrophic illness and severe injury, I look out the window and know that daylight will come. Nothing lasts forever. This isn’t some Polly-Ana crap that makes any of the pain less real or less devastating. It’s a reminder that I’m not in charge (always a newsflash, I keep forgetting). I don’t believe for a minute that God sent any of this junk into my life for some greater purpose. Let’s get that crappy theology out of the way right at the start.

Looking out the window at the light reminds me that I am not in charge and that’s okay. Actually, it’s a good thing. The rhythm of night and day ground me in a loving energy that is the very heart of the Divine. It is the best definition of hope I can think of. The steady unfolding of times to see and times not to see remind me that while I may be paralyzed by what is happening in the moment, it won’t last forever. I look out the window and see the light. I look out the window and see the dark. Neither lasts forever.

The dark is comforting in a different way than the light. It acknowledges the reality of whatever I am going through in the moment. And it doesn’t try and change it or fix it. It simply allows it to be. I grow weary of well-intentioned people who are all sunshine and light. They are the poster children for Annie’s theme song, “The Sun will come out tomorrow.” When the darkness is thick around me, let me be in the darkness. Come sit with me in the darkness. I know nothing lasts forever but it lasts for right now and hearing shallow platitudes is not helpful. Rare is the person who knows how to sit in the dark with another.

I look out the window. If it is light and the sun is shining I watch how the light dances on the trees and casts its shadows on everything that blocks its way. If it is night I look at the depth of darkness and listen for its comforting company. Sometimes I relate to the sunshine. Sometimes I relate to the darkness. When I am in the light, I am reminded that at some point darkness will come, and it will be okay. When it is dark, I know the light will come and it will be okay. Nothing lasts forever, and therein is my gift of hope.