The Valuable Darkness of Hope
Yesterday, the three Abrahamic religions were united as people pondered the hope of resurrection, the hope of liberation, the hope of inspiration.
I suppose it’s this unity of hope that has encouraged me to finally make the move to start sharing my writing on this newsletter instead of just talking about it.
But really, I’ve been thinking about and talking about hope for a long time. There are some people who think hope is the idea that what we want will end up working out as we envision it.
Maybe that was the kind of hope that created feelings of frustration and rebellion in the children of Israel when they finally found freedom from slavery, only to discover the wilderness they moved into wasn’t ideal, let alone comfortable or kind. Maybe it was that kind of hope that followers of Christ expected when their Savior had risen, a hope that He’d stick around, fix the government, alleviate their burdens. Maybe it was that kind of hope that people around Muhammad held as they tried to align their lives in oneness with God and navigate toward social and economic justice.
I can’t say I blame them. When I hear of someone receiving a scary diagnosis, I hope for a miracle—I want what ails them to simply disappear. I think this is the kind of hope we all held, for a while, in March of 2020; that the fast-spreading disease would die if we were willing to stay home, sacrifice some happiness, endure some isolation.
This is the kind of hope I would love to have when I look at how the world treats our LGBTQ+ siblings, and I want it to change faster so my nonbinary child and my queer child can show up, authentically as themselves, without judgment or dismissal let alone hatred and ostracization.
It’s the kind of hope I wish I had when my most recent bought of depression and anxiety leaves me weeping in the shower, or googling symptoms of a nervous breakdown, or merely navigating my day and responsibilities without feeling for anything at all.
It’s the kind of hope known to many when they enter a new relationship, when that relationship progresses to exclusively dating, to engaged, to married, that we will have found our person and live in a wonderland of happily ever after. Yet, anyone who has moved through these phases knows that putting in the effort to really see someone, and really be seen by someone, is not easy. Trying to plan a life with someone is not easy. Trying to navigate decades with someone is not easy.
I don’t think hope was ever meant to be the cure all, happy certainty we often want it to be.
Instead, hope sits with me when I wish for the “normal” days. It waits for me to realize what was normal will not be again, not for me, maybe not for you. Hope says there’s a reason to keep going, a reason to keep trying to be better, to learn more, to keep walking. Hope is the language of angels who have wondered if any of it is worth it, determined it was, it is, and are now willing to share.
Anyone who has known me for any amount of time at all knows that I love The West Wing without shame. And anyone who knows that is also aware one of my favorite parts is at the end of a Christmas episode, when Josh Lyman has had to reconcile what he believed to be true and what was true. After a day long conversation with a therapist, he admits to having an episode of PTSD and shortly after, heads toward the exit where his boss, Leo McGarry shares the following:
This guy's walking down the street when he falls in a hole. The walls are so steep he can't get out.
A doctor passes by and the guy shouts up, 'Hey you. Can you help me out?' The doctor writes a prescription, throws it down in the hole and moves on.
Then a priest comes along and the guy shouts up, 'Father, I'm down in this hole can you help me out?' The priest writes out a prayer, throws it down in the hole and moves on
Then a friend walks by, 'Hey, Joe, it's me can you help me out?' And the friend jumps in the hole. Our guy says, 'Are you stupid? Now we're both down here.' The friend says, 'Yeah, but I've been down here before and I know the way out.'
For me, this is hope. Someone who can say this is hard. What you are struggling with is real. This is a great unfairness. And they say this while they are down in the hole with you, walking with you, working toward getting through it, and out of it, together.
Notions with Tasha Seegmiller
When it comes to talking about issues close to the heart for many and not quite understood by others, sometimes we forget that we are all striving to be a little bit better. There is enough disgust and ostracism in the world already so, in these conversations, I want to offer that grace to everyone, including ourselves.
Notions | no•shuns.
Maya Angelou said, “I did then what I knew how to do. Now that I know better, I do better.”
Notions are also:
a belief of what something should be
a vague or imperfect idea
items used in sewing as small tools or final accessories
Sometimes we are trying to figure out how to embody the notion of what someone should be, or navigating a new-to-us notion, or striving to put the final notions on a complete idea. I like the visual of these things coming to us a little at a time. With that in mind, you can expect ideas I share to explore:
Notions about women including the roles of daughter and wife and mother and aunt and community member;
Notions of how faith can be the element that grounds so many people, bringing hope and light and joy and also break a lot of hearts;
Notions of mental illness, helping people understand if they may have one themselves, what help may look like, and what supporting a loved one living with mental illness really feels like;
Notions of the connectivity and heartbreak that come from families, acknowledging that they can both exist.
If this is the kind of conversation you’d like to have as well, I’d love to have you come along for conversations among those imperfectly striving.
In the meantime, tell your friends!