Reflections on Hope

At first I didn't know why I was panicking. The traffic wasn't bad. I wasn't running late. And then I realized.

I was afraid to tell her about what happened. Horribly, deathly afraid. It seems like so much of my time is spent being the good Christian girl. Or the good co-worker. Or the friendly neighbor.

And I wanted so much to tell her about my secret, about my pain. But I was afraid. I felt like I was chocking.

So I vowed not to say anything about it.

I was still thinking about that drive later that afternoon at church.

I thought about how it is so, so difficult to take all the broken little pieces of our lives and turn them into a complete whole. We are a smiling face and a handshake, or the man with the old car. We are the person at the unemployment office, or on one end or another of a rape-crisis hot-line. We are smart and talented, or broken and suffering. But never complete, never all those things all at once.

And so I stood there trying to pray, trying to sing. And I prayed for healing.

And then God taught me something.
He is Love, purely and perfectly. And somehow He is able to take our broken secrets, my broken wounds, and transform them into something beautiful.
He is able to make sense of our past and transform it into hope for the future.

No one's story is too frightening, too broken, too hopeless when washed in the Love of God.