hope

I always find it much harder to blog once the wards have emptied for the year. It's as if their lives and stories are so much more important than my own. Or, at the very least, a lot more interesting; I can't deny the truth of that. But once they go the place is quiet and dark. Except for the emergency lights of course; you can't turn those off, and they stand constant guard over the empty rooms.

I've been thinking about light a lot in recent days, in large part because of the Advent services that started last week. You know, the ones with real candles. Candles are a big deal around here; open flame is prohibited on board except for these five small candles once a year (and sometimes the ones in Santa Lucia's crown, but that's a whole different tradition for a different day). The International Lounge, where we have Sunday services, is darkened and each week another candle is lit. Last week was the candle of Hope, and as I sat there watching the tiny flicker of the flame, it hit me again what a tremendous thing hope is.

We use the word all the time. I hope it doesn't rain. I hope dinner will be good tonight. I hope this brownie doesn't make me fat. We use it so often that, like so many other weighty words, it's lost much of its impact. I looked it up just now because I love words and all their shades of meaning. The first was unsurprising.

A feeling of expectation and desire for a certain thing to happen.

It makes sense that the first little candle throwing its light into the darkness of a new year is the one christened hope. Hope is that longing for something new, that breathless anticipation of something you can hardly bear to speak aloud.

The second definition was the one that set my heart spinning in my chest.

A person or thing that may help or save someone : Their only hope is surgery.

Hope is so much more than just a feeling, more than an idle wish or a passing desire. For so many, hope is all that's left when the rest of the world has turned away. Hope is what gives a mama strength to hide her baby in a back room rather than bury him in the forest when he's born with a cleft lip. Hope is what keeps a seventy year-old woman walking, all the way from one country to another, seeking help for the tumor growing on her hand. Hope is what whispers in the ear of a man as he lies awake at night, desperately wishing that someone would look past the scars on his face.

Hope is the light in the deepest night, the single flame in the face of crippling despair. It's the unwavering promise that, yes, salvation is possible, that there is a way out, no matter how dark the path might be.

Matthew wrote that nations would put their hope in the name of Jesus.

Is it any wonder that He called Himself the Light of the World?