The Gift of Hope

He that lives in hope dances without music. -- George Herbert

Hope is a mysterious creature.  Sometimes I'm still not sure it even exists.  When my husband was ill, initially I had a whole lot of it.  You kind of have to in that situation.  No matter what the doctors said.  No matter how short the predicted remnant of his life.  As the weeks went by, hope soared as prayers were answered with brief spates of remission.  Hope was eclipsed during periods of decline.  Then the cancer spread to his spinal column and there was no more that the doctors could do.  In hospice, there was a glimmer of hope when his appetite returned.  Then, it disappeared altogether when he could no longer respond. 

Time passed; I don't know that I really paid too much attention to hope over the years.  I guess it was always there behind the scenes, keeping me moving.  It wasn't always recognizable so I assumed it was gone.  Dormant at best.  After all, what was there to be hoped for?  Endurance.  But like a kind of optical illusion or fun house mirror, I couldn't see it even though I was looking directly at it.

It was hope that kept me getting out of bed every day.  That kept me working.  And, even though I said it was for my daughter, it was hope that eventually brought me to church; the hope of reconciliation and a fresh start. 

Nowadays, it's hope that keeps me coming back to church.  And hope that picks me up after countless disappointments.  It's the expectation of better things - on Earth, maybe; after death, certainly.

I don't know whether or not hope laughs, as Bill said in the sermon this morning, but I think it does tease. It's the elusive shadow of God dancing just near the horizon.

Every

Child

Has known God.

Not the God of names,

Not the God of don'ts,

Not the God who ever does

Anything weird,

But the God who only knows four words

And keeps repeating them, saying:

"Come dance with Me."

Come.

Dance.