I chose HOPE as my word for 2022. Usually I have more confidence in my choice, and this year, something in my gut said, “Pick it!”, but it felt so…off. Uncomfortable. I think I’ve had such distaste for hope because it requires a tolerance for uncertainty. I like tidy, sure things. (But I went with it anyway, because my gut is very loud sometimes.) I’ve been thinking about hope a lot since I chose it—reading devotionals and journaling about it—and I realized that this is a word I say all the time. But I have been using it so very carelessly. When I say, “I hope so,” which I so often do, I almost never have the confidence, belief, or trust that the word signifies. When I say, “I hope so,” what I actually mean is, “I wish.” When I say, “I hope so,” what I actually mean is, “Maaaaybe, but probably not.” When I say, “I hope so,” I actually mean, “This is unattainable.” When I say, “I hope so,” I actually mean, “Gosh, this would really be nice, but I don’t expect it to actually happen.” And honestly, I almost never expect it to actually happen. Hope is calling out blessings with confidence before they happen, and I’m so afraid of being wrong that I doubt. So every time I say the word “hope,” it’s sprinkled with the dust of my own insecurities. This lazy, ironic usage has robbed the word of its true power for me. My doubt has rendered hope impotent. I’ve been using “hope” as a throwaway word, and that needs to change. When I think about instances where I actually experience hope, I think about foster care. Foster care is all about hope. (My daughter’s first name means hope, and when we adopted her, she chose Hope as a new middle name.) When I see the kids we’ve fostered navigating the challenges of adulthood in ways that make me proud, I have hope. When we can look back on past successes, that gives us hope. It is easier to have hope in retrospect, but that’s not what hope is for. Hope is for now. Hope is present condition regarding a future desire. It’s about something we don’t have yet, and waiting for it with patience and confidence. We can look to the past for evidence of hopes fulfilled, but hope isn’t about the past. Hope is about holding on in this moment. Hope is about having faith in possibility. It’s a relentless belief that things will work out, even if they don’t work out in the way you thought they would. Hope means infinite possibilities…but it often means letting go of the possibilities you imagined. This has been a sticking point for me. I don’t like the idea of letting go of the possibilities I imagined, especially for my own life. (I have had oh-so-many shattered plans.) And hope requires us to dwell in a place of uncertainty, and that’s just hard. I like plans and order and predictability. But hope is the plan. There’s a tradeoff there: I have to exchange my tidy plans for the sprawling, inclusive possibility of hope. Things might not turn out how I imagined, but hope trusts that things will still be good regardless of the outcome. So this year, I am learning to use the word “hope” with more care. I am learning how to hold hope in this moment. I am learning to dwell in possibility. It’s uncomfortable and strange, but that’s where the hope lies. Can I do this? I hope so.
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It’s Advent—the season of preparation and anticipation. I love Advent, maybe as much as Christmas. I love the whole month of December, actually, and I love spending it in celebration. I love the decorating, the baking, the weather changes. I love making lists and checking them twice. I love the music and the good cheer. I love shopping for gifts and wrapping them and placing them beneath the tree. I love this sort of preparation. I love having everything ready for the celebration to come. Maybe it’s the control freak in me, I don’t know, but I love feeling ready. It is appropriate then that I am spending this Advent season in another sort of preparation—we are likely getting another foster placement by January: a teenage girl. It’s an interesting parallel, that these two seasons of my life are overlaid in this way. I’m currently nesting, getting the bedroom and bathroom ready, cleaning and dusting and washing bedding. I am preparing my home for this child, much like we prepare our hearts for the arrival of Christ at Christmas. There is a spirit of welcoming in this sort of preparation. It is an anticipatory joy. Such celebration shows care. Such preparation shows sincere desire. It says, You are wanted in this place. You belong here. I am ready for your arrival. I want to be ready to welcome this new child. I am spending this time in preparation, anticipating the connection we will forge, the bond we will have. I am hoping that this spirit of welcoming that I’m trying to cultivate with clean sheets and fresh toothpaste is akin to the Christmas spirit all around us—peace and goodwill, hope and connection. Welcome to our home and our hearts, new girl. You already belong. The shape of my family isn't anything like I had expected it would be. I was expecting a tidy circle, as most families seem to be. My husband and I tried to grow our family in the natural way, but we could produce no children of our own. We longed for family, though, so we decided to open our hands to embrace those adrift in the foster system, unmoored from their own family circles. It is a good thing that I have always loved strays. The foster care experience has been both hard and surprisingly beautiful. There is something uniquely fulfilling about expanding the circle of your family in this way—letting go of the familiar hands of your spouse to admit a stranger and pull them into the fold, then stepping back to allow them space to join you for as long as they need. In this way, the circle of our family has grown, its dimension an ever-changing variable. We have only known the experience of family under these uncertain terms. Even our adoption has felt impermanent at times. The past can never be eradicated, and no matter how tight our bond with our daughter may be, I know that part of her will always wonder and long for another reality, another unbroken family circle that does not include us. It is a sobering thought. But it's not enough to keep my hands from squeezing tightly around hers. I want her to know she has a place in the family we have built both with and for her, even if her hands always long for the touch of the ones that held her at birth. She is ours, and sometimes we know we need to hold on loosely. But we never let go. Families are made by people turning towards each other. For better or for worse, our hands are bound to those we marry and birth, and within these circles we make, we focus our love and attention. We seldom look past the familiar faces across from us. But foster care requires you to look beyond the circle of your own family to notice and embrace those who need a place. It is the decision to open your circle to others, to take an unfamiliar hand and hold it tightly and learn its curves and edges until it is familiar as family. It’s taking hold of that hand without knowing how long it will need yours. It could be three days. It could be three years. It could be forever. (I always hope for forever.) In a way, though, I guess it always is forever, regardless of the court’s decision. The circle of our family does not shrink after their time with us is through. In my heart, they are all forever my children, and they will forever occupy space there. We always leave space for them to return when they need us. The arms in our circle are always open. Perhaps our family isn’t so much a circle as it is a parabola, its curved ends always reaching out, ready to receive whatever blessings might come. |
Old Stuff.
January 2023
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