Where Loss and Hope Collide
Ann Voskamp recently wrote,
“What you don’t know how to live through—Jesus died for.
Where you don’t know how to go on—Jesus already went through.
What feels hopeless—is where you meet more Jesus.”
Hope is the thread I hang on to as my parents age. It is woven through the fabric of my life whether or not I recognize its value. I struggle to keep up with its ever-changing shape, yet I am not afraid. Hope allows me to build faith, and it pushes me to love generously on its foundation.
Hope breathes life into my most difficult circumstances. Daily, the reality of mortality seeps in. It forces me to recognize its role and approaches without warning. I am determined to make decisions with intent. I am celebrating my mom’s sixtieth birthday with family and friends in between my dad’s chemo appointments.
I am both honored and humbled by those gathered to celebrate Mom’s life. A heavy cloud hangs over us, as we know Dad is fighting for his own life. The birthday party symbolizes hope for the future. Knowing what their future holds, I cling to it. I cherish this gift of time and pray for a miracle. My focus begins to shift to eternity.
I wish to do my parents’ legacy justice. I love them when they need it most and fight for them when they need an advocate. My hands hold theirs during the natural process of slowing down—something I know nothing about. Our moments are tokens, tucked away in my heart. I remain hopeful that I will have done enough when the time comes to say, “Until I see you again.”
My parents speak to me about Dad’s retirement. The possibilities are wide open, depending on if he outlives his official retirement date. I remain in denial, wondering how we arrived here. I am stricken with the reality of this conversation. I can’t help but ask myself, Why?
Retirement has meant travel and woodworking for my dad. I am wrecked to see them tired, faltering, and worried. Hopefulness is the only way to survive. Hope becomes everything when it is all you have. My own worry is immense, but hope rescues me from myself. My fear subsides.
My prayer changes overnight from a miracle healing to eternal living. Faith and love become a bigger part of my daily routine. My hopes are shadows some days, but still alive. I wonder if Dad will eat today, take a walk, or sit up for a few minutes. I pray we can talk a bit, allowing Mom some rest. She needs to sleep and keep up with her own self-care (which she hasn’t). I realize how far we have come in this journey, and I weep. I know the two—grief and hope—are a package deal.
I am selfish and unprepared for this, yet resoundingly hope carries me through. When my dad is transitioning to heaven, it somehow remains intact. I will see him again. I will hold his hand and walk with him in the garden someday. My hope for him has shifted to eternity. I am very grateful for the truths faith and love have afforded me through it.
It is not lost on me that he barely makes it to retirement on his way to the ultimate retirement. His official retirement date is March 1, 2017. He moves on from this world at 2:15 a.m., March 1, 2017—his final gift to my mom.
I tell Mom everything I need to say, because I am not promised tomorrow. Her life is completely different—a new normal is discovered every day. Her hope shines in the darkest hours with the loss of her husband and friend. It is a testament of her faith, love, and the legacy they always wished to leave for us. I am honored to have such great people showing me this is the only way.
It occurs to me every one of us must face this giant—with parents, grandparents, siblings, or friends. Mortality is our final chapter here, and our hope is placed on what happens next. This is where my hope culminates—the eternal future.
My personal journey has revealed no ending; I still find hope when I look around. While I have hope for Mom and her healing, I know one day I will face eternity for her as well. It is a bittersweet moment, to realize your aging parents are closer to than farther away from eternity. I know what I remain unafraid.
This time I have is filled with gratitude for each moment. It is full of reflection and heartache. I have a growing faith I didn’t expect, and a widening love for those who enter. My future is mapped out only by being hopeful in all circumstances. I have never felt so willing to be in God’s hands, fully accepting grace and mercy. I pray for humility and patience while enduring this grief. I want my faith, hope, and love to be a gift for my mom. I am certain it was a gift for my dad in his final weeks.
Jesus said, “‘And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love’” (1 Cor. 13:13 NIV).
My hope for you?
Find the sliver of hope you need and hang on. Allow it to be a foundation for faith and love. Feed it every day. Cling to it when times are rough, and bask in it when times are good. Understand the process of aging is part of God’s plan. Birth, death, and resurrection are all part of my hope story. They are also part of yours.
lives in rural Ohio with her husband and family. She spends her best and most important time with the Creator of the Universe and with her family. She loves coffee, Jesus, and gardening, but not necessarily in that order. Angie blogs at angiedailey.com.
Photograph © Siarhei Plashchynski, used with permission
