Scriptures: Psalms 23, John 14:1-3, Romans 8:37-39

Hope As Real As the Hurt

It was, as the saying goes, “a dark and stormy night.”

We had just finished an event on a Native American reservation led by a team of inspiring Native young people. 

Once safely in the church basement where we were staying, a lightning strike sounded as though it was moving in, and suddenly we were plunged into pitch-black darkness.

We couldn’t see anybody or anything. It was creepy.  

After a few nervous minutes in the dark, someone found a candle. I cannot begin to tell you the change in that room when that little flame flickered to life.

It wasn’t much—just a little light—but it changed everything.

In our personal dark times—and we all have them—that little flame has a name. It’s called hope. And it changes everything.

But that flame can be fragile too. It can be extinguished all too easily and leave us alone and afraid in the dark again.

Again and again, we’re hit with how quickly the flame of hope can go out. A storm, a quake, a pandemic, an accident, a breakup, a job loss, a financial disaster, bad news from the doctor. Life’s unexpected losses keep reminding us how insecure our security is and how not in control we really are. How quickly our “go to” person or thing can be gone.

It turns out, hope is more fragile than we knew. People and anchors who secure our lives are more “losable” than we realized.

I know. One night the amazing woman I had loved since I was 19 was by my side at our grandson’s graduation. The next afternoon, she was gone.

The loss was incalculable. It touched every part of my life and my future. Suddenly my personal world was turned upside down. The light had gone out.

Oh, how I needed hope. And, oh, what I have learned about what hope is and what it isn’t. 

Wherever there’s loss, there’s grieving. And wherever there’s grieving, there are choices. Some lead to hope and healing. Some lead to more hurt and more grief.

For hope to overcome despair in life’s dark valleys, hope needs to be as real as the hurt, as strong as the grief, as compelling as the fear, and as powerful as the pull to give up.

This hope finds the healing presence of God Himself in the midst of the rubble and is a hope that shakes its fist at despair and fear and shouts, “No! You can’t have me!”

Scriptures: Psalms 25:4-6, Philippians 4:11-13, Romans 8:26-28

Hope in the Darkest Night

“Code Blue.”

The announcement that summons all available medical personnel to a life-or-death emergency—except this day it was the person I loved more than anyone in the world.

My wife’s lungs had suddenly been overwhelmed with seven and a half liters of fluid.

She was drowning. The doctor shouted, “Code Blue!”

My mind went into overdrive, flooded with what this could mean. Had I held the love of my life for the last time? I’ve done my whole life with her. How can I do the rest of it without her?

I was gasping for emotional oxygen. I was desperate for hope.

Drowning is a pretty fair description of how it feels emotionally when one of life’s sledgehammers hits. In those moments that seem to knock the breath out of us: the death of a loved one, the death of a marriage, the health diagnosis, the prodigal son or daughter, the pink slip, the infertility, the failure.

For most of us, there has been—or there will be—that crushing time when we are desperate for a life preserver. We are drowning.

Hope really is the emotional oxygen that keeps us going. 

But hope has to be more than “when you wish upon a star,” or crossing your fingers, or just quoting inspiring slogans from a motivational speaker.

We need something more muscular, more durable, more authentic. There is hope like that. I know. It’s the air I’m breathing right now. 

Here is a real-life definition of hope. Of defiant hope:

Hope is a buoyant confidence, acknowledging the hurt, but anchored in an unseen but certain reality.

A hope that is a  confidence that squarely faces the loss and the unanswered questions, yet chooses to not be defined by them.

Hope requires choices that defy the seeming hopelessness you may feel.  

Night can be so dark. But every sunset in my lifetime has been followed by a sunrise. Without fail.

As we move through this plan, we will discover the choices that will help us breathe the life-restoring oxygen of hope.

These are choices that don’t deny but do defy the pain of your past, the grief in your heart, the wilderness that surrounds you, and the danger in our world. 

There is a way to make it through the darkest night. 

It’s called defiant hope!

Scriptures: Psalms 11:3-4, Jeremiah 29:11, 2 Corinthians 12:9-10

Hope is a Fist in the Face of Surrender

Years ago, I asked our friend Nancy how she was doing since her accomplished husband had died. It was the first time I’d seen her since that happened. I’ve never forgotten what she told me: “Ron, this is the final exam. And you can’t cram for it. You’re either ready or you’re not.”

It really is the final exam.  

A crisis of hope is usually triggered by losing one of our life anchors—a person, financial security, health, job, marriage, independence, or just our confidence in the future.

But in the face of loss, hope is buoyant confidence. You can push a cork under the water, but as soon as you let go, it’s coming back up! You can sink it, but you can’t drown it.

Defiant hope doesn’t mean you don’t go down. It means you don’t stay down. 

You didn’t have a choice about the hit or the hurt. But you do have a choice about the hope.

Without the choices that unleash hope, we are defined by our loss, our wounds, our fear. So there’s a decision to be made.

We must challenge hopelessness—resist—not to deny the pain, but to refuse to be defined by the pain.

Hope is usually not our default response when we’re hit hard or hurt deeply. Instead, there’s depression, anger or anxiety, paralysis or pity, lashing out or dropping out, giving out or giving up. So hope has to be a defiant choice.

Because . . .

Hope is a fist in the face of surrender.

When a staggering blow, a crushing loss hits, defiant hope chooses to respond with three courageous affirmations:  

1. I will not deny my pain.  
2. I will not be defined by my loss.  
3. I will rely on an unseen but certain Hope beyond the hurt.

There are defiant hope choices I’ve seen wounded people make that have taken their life higher than ever before—choices that have redeemed their brokenness and recycled it into hope for other broken people. 

Somewhere, buried beneath your grief and agonized questions is a plan. It’s unseen right now. But it’s certain.

If you focus on that, you can make the choices that will redeem this pain rather than deepen it.

Battle the storm of grief head-on, doing your best to make the choices that unleash hope.

Scriptures: Lamentations 3:21-23, 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18, 1 Peter 1:3-9

Hope Has a Name….Jesus!

All I remember is a chaotic night in our little apartment on the south side of Chicago. My parents whisked my baby brother out the door, wrapped in a blanket. My grandmother whisked me off to her house.

I never saw my baby brother, Steven, again. The doctors weren’t even sure what he died from.

My daddy seemed to cry all the time. He was a broken man. Knowing what I know now, I would say he was inconsolable—without hope. 

One day, my broken daddy decided to put his life in the hands of the Savior who was broken for him. He was never the same.  And while he never got over the death of my brother, he was known by everyone for his smile, his joy, and his encouragement.

God’s Word says we “do not grieve like the rest of mankind, who have no hope.” 

With Jesus, yes, we grieve. But there’s something on the other side of the scale—hope—because of Jesus. We have hope because of His love and His heaven. Without Jesus, it’s just the agony of grief.

Our embattled lives on earth are not all there is. This is the opening act—the warm-up, the beginning. This is Hotel Earth—not home.

We can think differently in our grieving because of the revolution made possible by the resurrection. Jesus added a transformative word to the word life—everlasting. It’s in the “everlasting” zone that we find meaning for our pain, healing for our brokenness, and hope for our “hopelessness.”

It is our choices that determine whether life’s hard hits take us to a bitter place or a better place. And the foundation for choices where hope wins is a cross on a hill and a tomb that is empty.

Standing there, we are ready to confront the hurt and the loss that make hope so hard to hang onto.

The Savior who carried a cross is there to help me carry my burden.

And, when I am too weak to go on, He even carries me.

This Savior who is weaving my life here into an eternal tapestry says in my dark time, “This isn’t the story—this is only a chapter.”

This death-crushing Jesus stands by me at a fresh grave and whispers, “This isn’t the end. It’s the beginning.” It’s the unseen but certain hope that energizes a buoyant confidence, defying life’s deepest hurts and darkest valleys. 

Hope has a name. His name is Jesus.  He is living hope.

Scriptures: Ecclesiastes 7:14, Isaiah 61:1-3, Romans 5:1-5

“How Can God Use this?”

In 2011 a tsunami virtually leveled the Japanese coastal city of Ishinomaki. Sue Takamoto noticed in the debris all the colorful shards of broken pottery. She and her friends collected and washed those shards and created rings and necklaces and earrings from the broken pieces. 

Sue said, “In the rubble of our storm, we all have lots of broken pieces. We can leave them broken. Or—with God’s grace and help—make them into something beautiful. Something called hope.”

Beauty from ashes—that’s the hope promise for those who are hurting.  I’m seeing the ashes of my grief be recycled into the beauty of growth.

And that, in turn, seems to be spilling out into the lives of others. 

God recycles the worst things that have ever happened to us into credentials. Or crud-entials—that qualify us to speak of the difference Jesus makes in life’s deepest valleys and darkest moments.

And people listen. People may not want to hear your message. But they will listen to your scars.

When the worst happens, there is a question that erupts from our wounded heart: “Why, God?”

That question may never be answered this side of eternity. Eternity will answer all our whys. Until we can see the whole tapestry, many of the threads may not be understood.

But there is a question that can be answered here—a question that is the first step in finding meaning in our pain: “How can God use this?”

I guess the bottom line can be summarized pretty simply: If you’re going to get the pain, get the point!

There are questions to ask that can lead us to some of the purpose in the pain.

• What priorities do I need to reevaluate?
• What important things have I been neglecting? What regrets can I learn from here?
• What weakness or sin is this revealing in me?
• What have I done—or not done—that helped bring this on? 
• What is God trying to say to me through this?

A broken heart is an open heart—open in places that may have never been open before. Jesus moves into those places with His transforming love and comfort and healing. Jesus makes beautiful things in people’s lives from broken pieces.

My prayer for you is that you will bring all your broken pieces to Jesus, lay them at His feet, and open your hands to receive what He wants to give you.

Scriptures: Micah 7:7-8, 2 Corinthians 1:3-7, 2 Corinthians 12:9-10

What I’ve Learned from What I’ve Lost

As the story goes, eagles welcome storms. While other birds run for cover, the eagle sits waiting for the storm’s arrival.

Eagles soar on wind currents and updrafts—something a storm has plenty of. So when that wind hits, it is said an eagle can use those currents to carry him higher and higher.

So can we. Our storms can ground us. Or they can carry us higher than we’ve flown before.

Again, it is our choices that determine the outcome. We don’t get to decide if and when a life storm hits us or even what we lose in the storm. But we do decide where the storm takes us.

When we lose someone or something that has been a life anchor, it often leaves a gaping hole in our heart.

My friend John, reflecting on his five years without Nancy, said “You rebuild your life around that hole.”

So the final question that rises from the ashes of a great hurt is: What have I learned from what I’ve lost that can make me stronger?

My blueprint for a more storm-proof me includes so much of what I have gained from what I have lost.

• Treasure the people you love above any list, any schedule, any activity—while you can.
• Deal with what you regret while there’s still time.
• Let your heart that broke keep your heart tender toward God and people. Don’t ever let it close up.
• Take the elevator to the top floor to see the bigger picture God sees.
• Live each day as if you won’t have another.
• Stay as real and raw with Jesus as you were at the point of your great loss. It allows Him to be closer than you’ve ever felt Him.
• Look for the people who need the comfort and caring that sustained you in your storm.
• The Anchor holds.

The hammer of a devastating loss can indeed build you or demolish you. But the hammer doesn’t decide the outcome. We decide.

It is those hope choices that defy those hope robbers that come when we lose something or someone we treasure. 

You can lose a loved one. You can lose a job, a home, a dream. You can lose your health, your innocence, even an anchor relationship.

But you don’t have to lose hope if you make the choices that defy surrender.

I can only hope that the extreme shaking and sifting and heat of my loss has produced something of value—to God, to those I love, to hurting people who will cross my path the rest of my life.

If I choose hope, gold can come from grief.

Scriptures: Colossians 1:16, Romans 3:23, 1 Peter 3:18, John 3:16, Romans 10:9-10

Hope Forever

There is a picture that hangs on the wall in our living room.  I first saw this picture when I was a boy, first learning about Jesus at church.

The picture shows Jesus as a shepherd. He’s leading a flock of sheep alongside a quiet mountain stream, and in His arms a little lamb, looking up at his shepherd as the shepherd looks lovingly at him.

And I said, “That’s me! I’m the lamb in Jesus’s arms!”

And, I’m that lamb, not just then as a six-year-old boy but on the darkest day of my life. Oh, how I needed my Shepherd. And He was there. 

Jesus offers safety and security no matter what storm comes your way. Jesus gave me my life in the first place. Speaking of Jesus, the Bible says we were “created through him and for him.”  (Colossians 1:16)

Mark Twain said there are two important days in a person’s life: the day he was born and the day he finds out why.  

The answer to “why” is right there in the Bible in six words: created through him and for him. 

Problem: I added three words of my own: living for me. It’s that sin thing the Bible talks about, which isn’t breaking some religion’s rules. It’s me hijacking my life from the One who made it.

We’ve all done it. God says, “All have sinned.”  The ultimate destination of a life I run is a forever away from God.

But the only way I could ever belong to the One I was made for was to have the penalty paid for the hijacking of my life. And the penalty for hijacking is death—and in this case, the spiritual death of forever separation from a God who’s perfect.

Jesus did the dying for the sinning I had done against Him. When Jesus let them nail Him to that cross, He actually “suffered for our sins . . . He died for sinners to bring you safely home to God.”

Nobody ever loved me like that. 

Jesus blew the doors off death and walked out of His grave under His own power. So when He says, “Whoever believes in the Son [Me] has eternal life,” I know He can deliver on that promise. 

He’s standing there with open arms. But it’s hard getting our attention until one of life’s hammers hits.  That’s when we lost sheep start to realize we’re lost. 

You can belong to God from today on if you will tell Him with all your heart something like this:

“Lord, I’m sorry for running my own life. I’ve been living for me. I resign as of today. I believe your Son, Jesus Christ, paid my death penalty when He died on the cross. I’m turning from a life of ‘my way’ and I’m putting all my trust in Jesus Christ to erase my sin, to give me a relationship with You, and to get me to heaven. Lord, from today on, I’m Yours.”

That is hope that is stronger than every hurt, every tragedy, every loss, even death itself. 

Because it’s not just hope for now. It’s hope forever.