When Hope Is Painful

"I'm probably not pregnant."
"I mean...I don't really feel pregnant."

"But oh..." the hope welled into my chest, pushing all the air out of my lungs in breathless anticipation. "What if I am?  What if I really am this time?"

I take a deep breath and look down at my lap - one line.

And that same hope is suddenly changed - as the joy in my chest becomes the lump in my throat.
Every time.  Why do I do this to myself? I allow myself to believe that this time will be different.  I trust.  I believe.  I hope.

All the research, psychology findings, magazine articles, church, family, everyone talks about hope.  Hope helps you navigate challenges.  Hope helps you overcome.  Hope makes you resilient.  But what about when hope hurts?

When hope turns to nope
When joy becomes disappointment.
When promise turns to pain.

Is it better to not let myself hope?  Will it be less painful if I don't let myself believe my miracle is coming?  If I swallow joy, don't let myself feel the hope, the anticipation, wouldn't that be easier, less thorny?  Yes, yes it would be easier.  But would it be better?  To live expecting the worst, resigned to the doldrums, to give in and become impermeable - unable to be hurt or disappointed because I squash desire and expectation?  No.  I cannot live like that.  Brene Brown wrote, "You cannot selectively numb."  To numb myself to pain also means cutting myself off from joy, or hope, or love, or peace.  No, I must have hope.  But how do I keep hope from being dangerous?  How do I keep hope from flying me high, and then sending me crashing to the ground?

For hope to be sure, it has to be anchored in something.  So the question is: what is my hope anchored in?
My hope cannot rest on those two pink lines, for there is no guarantee.
My hope cannot rest on diets, supplements, or exercise (though these are good things).
My hope cannot rest even on my own ability to stay positive in the face of adversity.

My hope must be centered on Christ.  This is not hope that He will give me a baby.  Not hope that He will keep me from having a miscarriage.  Not hope that He will heal my body.  For he can and does do all these things, but my hope rests in who He is.  My hope rests on the knowledge that He is good, so, so good.  My hope rests in the knowledge that he sees all my days from beginning to end.

I'm beginning to understand Job's perspective when he declared, "Though He slay me, yet will I trust Him."  Even when He allows things that hurt, He. Is. Good.  His ways are higher and deeper than mine.  The things I go through do not change who God is or His plans.  He will work all things in my life for His glory.

Please don't take my words as glib and trite. Often times, and even now, "I trust You." and "My hope is in You." come from the deepest, most wretchedly painful part of the soul, carried on a tide of grief and tears. Hope, like joy, can be thorny and scary and painful sometimes.  But if my hope is anchored to the unchanging God, I will not be tossed about.  And my hope in Him is the confident expectation that He is who He says He is, and the confident declaration that "He knows the way that I take, and when He has tested me, I will come forth as gold."  Misplaced hope brings only grief and disappointment, but hope place securely on God and His unfailing love brings peace and secure footing through grief and disappointment.  This hope brings life - with all its warm sunshine and sharp edges - the knowing that He will have His way in me, for my good and His glory.

This is the kind of hope Paul writes about in Romans 5 - the hope that comes out of tribulation.  Hope that comes from faith that has tested and proven the promises of God, hope from the soul who knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that God's character and promises are sure.
"And not only this, but we also exult in our tribulations, knowing that tribulation brings about perseverance;  and perseverance, proven character; and proven character, hope; and hope does not disappoint" (Romans 5:3-5a)