“Hope” was our word.
The friend who discipled me during my early twenties reminded me of hope often. We traded it back and forth like a sweater that fit us both perfectly. I borrowed hope when the pregnancy tests kept coming up negative. She took it back when loneliness and singleness chafed. Back and forth, we passed hope until I moved away. My friend had the word engraved on a piece of glass and sent it with me across the state line. Hope isn’t in changed circumstances, we reminded each other. Hope is in Jesus.
I kept my infertility; she kept her singleness.
But, hope that Jesus would be enough anyway was our mainstay.
Some years later, when my friend was struggling with depression, I mailed the hope-etched glass back to her. Another year passed and a box arrived on my doorstep carrying a small, white pillow embroidered with our favorite word. Hope. Softer than glass.
Hope traveled the miles between us as we upheld one another in prayer that even with unchanged circumstances, Christ was enough for our longing hearts. And He always was. Always is.
I hadn’t had the pillow very long when I passed it along to another friend who was walking through a broken marriage. Sleeping alone for the first time in decades, she curled around hope and stained it with tears and mascara. Two years later, she returned it to me, professionally cleaned and cleared of all the traces of sorrow. Her marriage had been restored, but Jesus had sustained her when hope was a far-off thing.
Recently, I passed the hope pillow to another friend. I gave it to her while we sat in the cancer center where the chemotherapy drugs dripped through the port in her chest. “It’s just a pillow,” I told her. “But it’s a reminder that the Lord is with you. He keeps you. He loves you. He won’t waste your suffering.” I joked that the pillow was better than a pair of traveling pants. Hope in Christ is far more certain than a bunch of women trying to fit into the same pair of jeans, you know.
When we’re sinking down in a sea of suffering, hope can seem a distant shore. You squint hard to see it. Can’t make it out, though you know it must be there. You want it to be there. Stake everything on it being there. But it’s a long way off with a view obstructed by waves and mist and seeing dimly. We bob in the whitecaps of uncertainty, grasping for a glimpse of what we long for as the waves swell and recede beneath us.
Will the Lord leave us in our circumstances?
Where is hope if he does?
Over the years, I’ve mistaken hope for the outcome I desire. But hope like that can be washed away in a single wave. The things we long for can be found and lost in a moment. But Jesus is sure, certain, unchanging. His work at the cross can’t be undone. If we have been made alive in him, we don’t have to worry that the shore is too far off because our hope is securely anchored in Christ. Hope is a person, not a guaranteed change of circumstance this side of heaven. The author of Hebrews encourages us that God showed us his unchangeable character and has secured it with a promise,
“so that by two unchangeable things, in which it is impossible for God to lie, we who have fled for refuge might have strong encouragement to hold fast to the hope set before us. We have this as a sure and steadfast anchor of the soul, a hope that enters into the inner place behind the curtain, where Jesus has gone as a forerunner on our behalf, having become a high priest forever after the order of Melchizedek.” (Heb. 6:18-20)
When the sea of suffering tosses you around with its unpredictability, you have hope—real hope. When unfulfilled longings pummel you with doubt and cloud your vision with despair, you have hope—real hope. When you have fled to God for refuge, when he is your salvation, when you have been made alive in Christ, Jesus is the sure and steadfast anchor for your soul. Hope in him. Hold fast to the promise that he has reconciled you to God. Remember that though health and dreams and positions and titles and people may slip away from us, Jesus never will. Tether yourself to him. Sink all your hope in him. He is no distant shore but a firm, steady anchor for your soul which will far outlast your earthly sorrows.
When I’ve had trouble remembering that hope is Christ, not a circumstance, I’ve had brothers and sisters in Christ remind me of what’s true. That’s why there was a piece of glass and then a pillow and a lot of praying. To help me remember. It’s why you’ll find me in the pew with my church family every Sunday and gathered around a little table at the local coffee shop for Bible study with a small group of ladies every Tuesday. To help me remember. It’s why I can’t stop reading the Bible, praying, or joining with the body of Christ. To help me remember. I see too dimly too often.
I look forward to the day my friend will pass the pillow back to me. While we pray for a donor and better blood cell counts, I pray that she’ll know with certainty that Christ is with her. Maybe I’ll need the pillow, or maybe I’ll pass it on to another friend who’s trying to glimpse the shore. Sometimes we need to be reminded that hope isn’t a distant shore. Hope is an anchor. Hope is the one who promised to be with us always.
Hope is Jesus.
Remember that though health and dreams and positions and titles and people may slip away from us, Jesus never will. Share on X
Photo by Viktor Jakovlev on Unsplash
Glenna Marshall is married to her pastor, William, and lives in rural Southeast Missouri where she tries and fails to keep up with her two energetic sons. She is the author of The Promise is His Presence (P&R) and Everyday Faithfulness (Crossway), and Memorizing Scripture (Moody). Connect with her on Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter.