hope anthem

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A warning, to the girl who loses everything tomorrow. 

Oh, sister.

Tomorrow, dear one, the thing you’ve been fearing—you know the one—will come true.

You’ve rehearsed this over and over, giving it to God and taking it back at each sign of trouble. Friend, you are not crazy. You never have been, but I know you’d never wanted to be right about this. It will be just the way you’ve imagined, and yet it won’t be at all. You’ll feel like you’ve been through this before, and your breath will stop every now and then when you notice it. The days ahead will tumble down, gaining speed and traction with each blow. Your people will want to help you, but they can’t. They will ask you what they can do, and you will not know. You probably won’t ever know.

Tomorrow night, you’ll be back at home, and it will taunt you with things you’ll want to hold onto and throw away, all at the same time. You’ll blow up an air mattress to sleep in mom and dad’s room, where you’ll each take turns napping, screaming, and crying—drifting off to sleep then suddenly waking and remembering. Remembering is the worst part of all. But before you go to sleep, you’ll grab a Bible and a book about suffering, scanning for something—anything—that will help. Sweet sis, you don’t know it, but you are looking for hope. Every now and then, you’ll read something out loud to your parents, unsure of if it still applies to the doom chasing you down. It does.

There’s a feeling that will take over the next several days-turned-years. You won’t know what to call it, and you’ve become so comfortable with it that you probably will mistake it for numbness and shock. But it’s fear, which, oddly enough, will be a relief once you figure it out.

Sister, it’s okay to be afraid of what happened. You can be afraid of what it means, what your future holds, what you will do without him, how your parents will handle it, but you cannot be afraid to hope.

It will seem unnatural to hope, because it is. All these times you’ve rehearsed the scene, it hasn’t been assigned a role. But it has one, and you must bring it into play.

Leave the cliches behind—there is no place for them here. You’ll be afraid to see if anything’s left behind them, but look, and you’ll find more than you expected. Hold it tightly.

Your strongest words right now are “maybe” and “what-if.” Everything else is already definite enough, and these words will take you further than you think.

You will never have joy again. Maybe. What if you do?
You couldn’t know who you are without him. Maybe. What if you could?
You couldn’t possibly continue pursuing your dreams after this. Maybe. What if you did?

These questions will feel selfish comparatively, but hold your answers tight. They are your hope.
Do not be afraid to hope.

Maybe there’s a city still waiting for you.
What if you found joy again there, eventually?
Maybe you’ll still find pieces of yourself, even if they’re broken.
What if you pursued a dream or two?
Maybe that would be okay.
What if this wasn’t the whole story?
Maybe there could be more to it.
What if you found hope?
Maybe you’ll find hope.

Or maybe, it will find you. 

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 Photos by Simon and Moose

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