Notes of Hope: Vol. 1

(a practice: looking for the light)

Call it a practice in contentment or healing, a lifestyle or posture, or simply seeking the face of Jesus, call it what you will. I’m calling it Notes of Hope. In a world marked by pain and darkness, in a culture aching for acknowledgement, in homes desperate for connection, there are beauty and hope spliced and sprinkled within it all. I find it in nature. I find it in grace. I find it in literal light—and figurative light, as well. There’s so much I don’t have answers to, but what I know to be true is that when I take note of the goodness around me, it somehow
soothes my nervous system, my fears, my soul.

—

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” - John 1:5

***

“Mama, look!” My 8-year-old daughter practically shouted. She couldn’t help herself.

The light above the kitchen sink shone down directly over a clear, scalloped cup sitting on a coral plate. The light and shadows met the surface, dancing and perfectly designing brilliant edges of what looked like a sunburst beaming through an ordinary morning.

***

I have been thinking about the word rise. (It keeps popping up in my inbox and feeds.)

What does it look like for someone to be demolished—to dust—but then somehow still hope for enough grace and strength to rise again?

God created humanity from the ground. The lowest of lows. The earth we walk on. And somehow, here we are: talking, laughing, breathing beings. All from dust.

Surely, he delights in creating beauty from ashes.

He has risen, indeed.

***

My sweet friend has been facing weeks of torturous news. The kind that stings your eyes and makes your heart thud to your feet. She’s endured too much. Yet, she sent a message saying she’s looking for and photographing the light. She’s bravely exposing her hope, like raw, sun-burned skin.

***

I was explaining to Vera that God is omniscient. That he created each of us just how he saw fit.

Vera: God knows everyone?!

Me: Yep! And he takes care of everyone in the whole wide world.

Vera: So, he’s like one really big mom.

Me: Exactly.

***

“If you are willing,” my friend says the phrase a handful of times during our conversation.

If I am willing.

I run the syllables slowly through my mind, as if I am pouring boiled noodles from a pot into a strainer. I’m seeing how the words settle. I’m wondering if I can hold onto the nourishment and hope or if they too will escape down the drain. I want to know what this will look like—when all the junk has been sifted away and I’m left with a softened heart.

If I am willing.

I let the words tumble around in my body. Expanding my lungs. Jostling the very organs keeping me alive. Gently nudging—sometimes sharply elbowing—space for a home in my already jam-packed nervous system. But maybe this idea is a release valve rather than something else to do. Maybe it’s one of those choices you make and have no idea how much freedom is on the other side until you taste its sweetness.

If I am willing.

I lift my arms high, relaxing my shoulders, as I’m reminded time and time again. I open my chest—and therefore my heart—to the sky in Urdhva Hastasana. If I am willing. I inhale oxygen and life and let it wind its way around my heart and down to my limbs. If I am willing. I bend my hips forward and let my head, neck, fears, and losses hang, the crown of my graying hair reaching toward the earth. If I am willing. I exhale all that I’m so, so tired of holding onto.

If I am willing.

***

“Mama, I made something better than I tried to!” She proudly proclaimed, hovering over her Magnatile creation. “Even though I had to start over. It’s better now.”

***

I’ve always loved watching the birds come and go each day. I remember pointing out the flocks of crows to Vera at our old house when she was just a toddler. Whether we were outside playing at dusk or sipping tea at dawn, we’d pause and look up in awe at this simple natural phenomenon.

When we moved into our new home more than three years ago, I was delighted to discover that it didn’t matter where we lived, the birds still came and went, right on cue from the sun.

The other evening we were out front, gulping in as much of the crisp winter air as we could, when we spotted the crows heading home for the evening. A giant mass of wings and freedom moving as one. But that night, a few of the birds flew astray. I watched and wondered if they’d return to the flock. I wondered why they left in the first place. I wondered if the other birds noticed.

I never witnessed the outcome, but I have to believe they made their way back to where they belonged.

***

“Love is giving away what you have been so freely given. Giving away fills the well.” - Anne Lamott

Giving away fills the well.

***

I was listening to a sermon and it mentioned the prodigal son. He’s welcomed back with open arms. Has grace poured down on him like celebratory confetti after so many years of ruin. What a testimony to how much God desires each of us, no matter our faults. But what about the older son? What about the ones who’ve obeyed and stewarded the slices of holy light they’ve been given? I looked back at the verses. I studied the story again.

The father tells the older son: “You are always with me, and everything I have is yours.” - Luke 15:31

What more could anyone possibly want.

***

A few days ago, Vera and I were playing the game of Life. Every yellow action card she picked was another detriment to her making it around the board first with more money than me.

“Build an in-ground pool!” Pay 50k to the bank.

“Take the whole crew to live abroad for a year!” Pay 10k to the bank for each peg in your car.

“Support small businesses!” Pay 30k to another player.

I told her how generous she was with her money. She told me she didn’t want to be generous. Sometimes, she’s a poor sport—aren’t we all?—but that time was different. I could tell she was genuinely sad as she slumped off her chair and curled herself into a ball on the couch.

I asked if she wanted a Tootsie Pop.

As she peeled off the raspberry red wrapper, she scanned the wax paper and then her eyes begged mine.

“Did I get a star, Mama?”

No star.

The tears came like a flood.

“I feel like I’m never lucky,” she sobbed. I hugged her close and let her cry.

Then suddenly, she stopped, hopped up, and skipped to the kitchen and met me back on the couch with a Sharpie in hand.

She drew her own star.
She made her own luck.

***

I found an old bookshelf in our guest house and immediately declared it a plant stand. No time to waste cleaning it off. We live in the country, after all: the dust is part of the process. I happily found it a home on the south side of our house.

I added a wire basket and filled it with Christmas tree clippings, Toyon berry branches, and twigs from a dead oak tree that have been sitting in a pile in our driveway for months. Foraging gives me life.

In the middle of the day, in the winter, the sun finds its way through the branches of three oak trees and makes dappled light dance on the peach bricks of that south wall. The other day, while Vera was swinging and I was delighting in creating, I smiled at that blended, swirling light. The shadows and glimmers of warmth mixing together. Each playing its part in the offering. But I couldn’t help but notice that ultimately—even intermingled with the darkest parts—it was the light that begged to be seen.