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.
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“If one part suffers, every part suffers with it; if one part is honored, every part rejoices with it.” - 1 Corinthians 12:26
***
It was two days until my birthday, and I arrived at the restaurant fifteen minutes before my friends. I ordered my usual decaf cappuccino, tapped my debit card, and took my order number from the twenty-something standing on the other side of the counter.
It was chillier than I thought it’d be. But it always is, at the coast. I should know by now; I keep coming back to the water. I sat alone, sipping my coffee, waiting for the arrival of each of the women who’ve held me up in the valley, in different ways, this last year.
It took a few minutes for me to realize it, but I laughed out loud when I did: the wooden order number sitting in front of me was painted with a white forty-three.
***
A month or two ago, a friend and I were talking about tattoos. I said if I ever got another one, it’d likely be a bird or the word “hallelujah” in pretty handwriting. The bird to symbolize freedom; the hallelujah because it's a beautiful word with a beautiful reminder. I can praise God no matter my circumstances.
These last few years have dealt me devastation. I’ve had good reason, in the world’s eyes, to let the crushing dissolve my hope and faith. It has, at times.
But not permanently. Not long enough where I couldn’t notice a stream of light pouring through the trees. Not long enough where I didn’t get a text from a knowing friend. Not long enough for me to stomp all my hallelujahs into the dust of the ground beneath my feet.
After the plates were cleared and our coffees had only a slurp left in the bottoms of our cups, my friends slid their offerings of love across the table. As I unwrapped the crinkly white tissue from one of the gift bags, a frame with seafoam green edges appeared.
In bold, bright orange letters, I read the word “HALLELUJAH” and burst into tears. She remembered what I said. She remembered me.
Hallelujah: God be praised.
***
The night of my birthday brunch, Jesse hands me an envelope from the stack of that day’s mail. I see the hand-written name of the friend who sent it and clutch it to my chest.
Inside are the most thoughtful, encouraging words I have read in a long time. Reminders of who I am and who she sees me to be. I sat in the corner chair in the quiet of our room and cherished every syllable.
***
I was looking for a wetsuit, a springsuit to be exact. I want to spend more time in the ocean; it seems to be shushing my amygdala. But I can’t seem to stay in the cool, churning waters longer than ten minutes.
Jesse, Vera, and Archie waited in the car in the lot of one of my favorite places on earth, Valley Thrift, while I hunted for some neoprene. They did have one wetsuit but not the right size. I figured my family wouldn’t mind waiting a minute or two more.
The process is simple for me: scan for the right colors, check the size, check the brand, move on. That’s how I found her in merely seconds. That’s how it happened so fast.
I held the red Madewell romper up to my body and I smiled in satisfaction at my reflection in the mirror. Double-checked the price. Not bad. The green tag would give me a few bucks off at the register.
I thought I was stretching the birthday budget just a bit. I thought I was giving myself one last treat. But when I got in the car, I opened my phone to a message from a friend who, as I stood in line, had simultaneously sent me the exact amount of birthday money that the romper cost. A friend who loves thrifting as much as I do. A friend whose generosity is a well.
I texted her immediately to let her know she’d already bought me something even though she’d literally just sent the cash.
She wrote back, “THIS DELIGHTS ME TO NO END.”
It seems that seeing and celebrating others is a full-circle gift.
***
I bought Vera some lavender knock-off Crocs a few months ago from, you guessed it, Valley Thrift. She wears them proudly in the garden, swaying in the hammock swing, at Costco. I keep telling her I need some. That I wish we had matching shoes as we galavant around our country home and town. Is that what you do in your forties, pine for Crocs? I am in the garden a lot. I do like to slip something on quickly when we feed the kitties. I may possibly even wear them to Costco.
We scour the racks every time we thrift; I’m not buying paying full price, that’s one step too far. To no avail.
The day before my birthday, Jesse, Vera and I were at a sporting goods store and happened to walk by a whole rack of Crocs.
“Forty dollars?! No way,” I put my Croc-less foot down.
The morning of my birthday, I woke up to flowers, multiple handmade cards, an explanation that we have a staycation next week at, you guessed it, the beach. My little family also said I had a present arriving in the mail later that day.
When we got home from trying on wetsuits at the surf shop, lunch at our favorite coastal cafe, and running our pup in and out of the waves, a package was waiting in the mailbox.
I opened the gray plastic bag and to my surprise—but not yours—lavender Crocs were inside. I’m told it was all Vera’s idea. I’m told that my daughter remembered my comments and desires. I’m told my almost nine-year-old wanted to match her mama. I’m told relief washed over the two of them as I scoffed at the price at the sporting goods store instead of bringing a pair up to the register.
I’m told, by way of my new purple Crocs, that I am seen and loved.
***
Along with Crocs, there’s something else in our mailbox. Jesse hands me another envelope. This one has the name of a friend I recently saw, who already gave me a birthday card.
I carefully tear the sand-colored envelope and read more life-giving words. They seem to have a similar theme to the card I read from Jesse that morning and the card I received from a different friend earlier in the week. A list of all the things she loves and admires about me. A lengthy list of all the things he loves and admires about me.
A lot has changed since my last birthday. For better and for worse. But I can say that I didn’t receive a card with as much intention and vulnerability from my husband on my forty-second birthday. Or, the fourteen birthdays before that. Those past years, he didn’t sit at our kitchen table with our daughter and make a list of all the women who love me. He didn’t buy a pack of blank cards with wildflowers on the front, and send each one with a stamp, asking these women to fill the white space with love, lick the envelope, and mail them back addressed to me. But this year, he did.
Days after my birthday, sand-colored envelopes keep showing up in the mailbox. And each and every time, I clutch the words to my chest, as if they’ll permeate my wounds. I am covered in love, as if I’m diving under the white crashing waves of the salty sea. These words—his idea to orchestrate them—wash over with me like fresh hallelujahs.
Other Notes of Hope:
Man. Great post. And what a lovely gift from your husband and, by extension, your friends.
XXOO