Agony of Hope

While I was with P. & C. R-L last night, we got on the topic of hope and how horribly painful it really is. I don’t think anyone that reads my blog knows who these people are, so I think I am safe to talk about this. They are friends from college and my oldest friends in Colorado. They have a gorgeous, little girl who has one of the best personalities I have ever seen, of course she has two of the greatest parents I have ever seen (really). Around a year and a half ago, they lost their second child, a son. They told me last night, that they are ten weeks into another pregnancy. They are thrilled and excited, and scared beyond belief. There is not a way to know as of yet if the child will have the same disease/disorder (I don’t know which is correct) and it may be a long, long time into the pregnancy before they can find out. They spoke about how one minute they are filled with hope (faith) that this child will be spared and be healthy, and how the next, their hope is dumped into surety that the same pain awaits them as before. They spoke of how at times, it is almost less painful to nearly except that tragedy is inevitable. Of course, you can not choose to spend you life like that. Actually you can, many, many people do, however, you can’t truly life when you embrace that mentality. However, the fear and anxiety increases as their hope begins to take root. To hope is to give yourself over to devastation when your faith is denied. You could see God seep out of them as they spoke, see the love of all three of their children, feel the agony they go through simply to believe their child will be blessed with the gift of life and health. They’ve known pain I pray I never have to face or become familiar. Please, keep them in your prayers as they travel this path with their eyes and lips lifted to God, their hearts always near the abyss.

Being self-absorbed (even as I know my pain can not compare with theirs). I couldn’t help but completely understand what they were saying and feeling. No, I have never had a child die or had to fear that one might. I do know what it is to have hope, true, strong, real hope that you are with one you will be with when you die. I do know the pain of seeing all you planned and all you prayed for and all you loved with every fiber in you walk out the door, step into a friend’s car, and drive away. And, I do know how much more painful it is to try to hold on to the smallest glimmer of hope with no amount of guarantee that faith will become reality. Even as I let go of hope and try to live my life as if he will never want me again, part of me holds on so desperately so that in a few days, weeks, months, or even years, there will be a warm place for him to come home to, a spark for him to fan into a fire, and a love that will once again accept him for a lifetime. It’s amazing how the minuscule glimmer of hope and faith makes each moment heavy, aching, and, at times, nearly too much to bear.