Hope in a Hard Time

   

In these hard days when so many here and around the world have died—where so many have lost jobs and livelihood—especially the vulnerable with few resources who live everyday in fear—where many of us are still wary of going outside—and grief piles up on top of grief—it is hard indeed to see any kind of silver lining. 

I have spent some time this springtime marveling at nature’s promise of better days ahead. The knock-out roses seemingly everywhere and blooming in riotous color. The dogwoods and the tiny buds I planted from seeds. The wonder of things I planted  years ago coming up, despite the weather and the trauma of our lives. 

I keep remembering that timely quote from Annie Dillard. In one of her books there is a funeral scene where one of the characters, Norval, reads pompously from Scripture, “O death, where is thy sting?” To which Hugh, sitting in one of the pews, thinks, “Just about everywhere, since you ask.” And Hugh is right—the sting is everywhere these days the loss, the grief and fear of our unsettled future. Now that you ask.

And yet we must look around, like this gorgeous springtime for signs of hope in a very tough time. And they are everywhere—now that you ask. All the nurses, aides and doctors and those delivering meals to kids who have nothing except what the bus or some car brings. Those making masks and the smiles we see in the eyes of those with covered-up noses and mouths. Talk about heroes and warriors as the President calls his selected few—these are everywhere like the tinder shots in my garden. Nothing can stop them. 

Remember the Apostle Paul’s promise in a very hard time: “Who shall separate us from the love of Christ? Will hardship, or distress, or persecution, or peril, or sword?…No, he says, in all these things (all these things , Paul?) we are more than conquerors through him that loved us . For I am convinced (and we need to hear it yet again) that neither death, nor life, nor angels, nor rulers, nor things present, nor things to come, nor powers, nor height, nor depth, nor anything in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.”

So we find ways to hang on and wipe away some of our tears and move on—whatever that means. Weeks ago I kept looking at the stained glass piece that rests above our kitchen sink. We found it on a trip to Canada’s Niagara-by-the-lake years ago. We stopped in a tiny village and in the middle of the stores there was this shop that sold stained glass pieces. Inside that tiny room the walls and floor was covered in beautiful large and small pieces of strained glass. We asked the storekeeper about his shop. “Many of the pieces.” he said, “came from many of the bombed out churches of the war in England. I riffled through the debris.” he said, “and found pieces of stained glass scenes that were left after the windows had been shattered. I brought quite a few of them home. I took what remained of those windows and framed many of the center-pieces. I hoped to create from what was left maybe some beauty.” We bought one of his renderings. The center is the annunciation that came from the war. We have moved it from place to place where we have lived. And one day as I looked at the light shining through that colored glass I remembered the story the old man had told me. Since then I have thought maybe, just maybe some healing and beauty might just come to us all after this hard time. Annie Dillard’s character, Hugh was right: that sting of death seems to be about everywhere. 

Yet faith—slender though it may be—promises even this is not the end. My stained glass piece gives me hope.

photo by Ruth Hartnup / flickr

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com