Hope is a Weapon
Tomorrow’s Good Friday. Every year, it sneaks up on me. It’s like, I’m busy living my day-to-day normal life, and then I’m hit by the reality of how God brought Heaven to Earth and death to life, giving us hope for the seemingly-endless hopelessness that defines human existence.
I was reminded of this post I wrote last year that feels fitting heading into Good Friday/Easter. So I’m going to reshare it here:
How do you write about hope and also write what’s true?
It’s easy to lie about hope (even if it’s just lies of omission).
It’s easy to say,
“Hoping is the best thing you can do.”
“It’s such a gift.”
“Don’t give up—you’re almost there.”
“God is faithful to come through for you.”
“It’s going to be okay in the end.”
without talking about the other part of hope:
that it feels like going to war.
Because if you’ve ever hoped for something—like really, truly, on your knees begging that God or the universe or fate or whoever runs this will be on your side because you just couldn’t handle what would happen if not—you know that hope can feel like Hell.
It’s not a cutesy greeting card emotion. It’s not easy or naive or simple or immature.
It’s not about forgetting your worries or noticing sunshine or believing for the best. It’s so much deeper than that.
It’s not safe. It’s incredibly risky. It might result in more pain than you thought you could handle.
If you want a mirage of safety, lose all hope. You can’t ever be disappointed when you’re hopeless.
Hoping is one of the hardest things you can do.
Yet, there’s something in our bones that tells us it’s how we were meant to live.
Everything beautiful is born out of hope.
Friendships, paintings, rocketships, beach days, marriages, good food, movies, babies, latte art, gold medals, reconciliation, skyscrapers, healing, homes.
Hopelessness has never created beauty a day in its life. It’s only led to destruction. It fights to destroy everything good and true and beautiful (including us).
It’s no wonder hope hurts so bad. I’ve never heard of a soldier who returned from war and said, “That was such a gift. I can’t wait to do it again.”
Sometimes, we’re not ready to hope. And that’s okay. Hope—like healing—is a process. Hope is also generous. Sometimes other people’s hope is enough to keep us going, too.
A few days ago, my cousin Danielle sent me an original song about the cruelty of the world. (I wish you could all hear it.) It didn’t necessarily end in an uplifting way or have some positive message encoded in it. But it was moving and it gave me hope.
She said the song came out of a time when she was a teenager and saw the world's harshness up close. She didn’t understand “how you just keep going with life” and how “everyone pretends like everything is okay constantly to keep their own peace because we’re all just grieving constantly.” She ended with, “But so few of us will just do it together.”
Acknowledging our pain and grieving together is a source of hope.
Whispers of hope—even small ones—matter. They are battle strategies against destruction.
Our acts of hope push back darkness and put in its place beauty, goodness, and full life. Hope multiplies and creates more of itself.
When all we see is cruelty and confusion, hope is the only thing we have. It’s our only chance at beauty and fullness.
It’s a fight I’m willing to bet my life on.
Hope is a weapon. And the battle is a worthy one.
This week, keep hoping. If you feel too weak, ask someone to hope for you. If there’s any battle worth fighting, it’s this one. Because (spoiler alert), the grave is empty and the healing has come and love wins.
If you need someone to hope for you, respond with a quick message (just “Can you pray for me?” will do). And I’ll help fight for you this week. Seriously. You’re not alone.
Happy Easter,
Sarah