The Geography of Hope

I opened my eyes, took that first long breath of morning, and smiled. It was finally fall. Rain patted against my window; the air was cool. I slipped out of bed, exuberant. Donning my flannel, and hurriedly making my coffee, I threw open my mom’s old college chest and took out all the fall decor. It only took about 15 minutes to carefully place the few select items I’ve collected over the years, but I couldn’t help smiling at their effect. Coziness, rest, home. Absolutely delightful. The clouds settled about the mountains out my window as if the peaks were adjusting a chunky blanket about their shoulders. Raindrops fell with a calming steadiness. Fall was there to stay that day, and I felt my soul exhale….a deep relief, a feeling of being deeply, inexplicably known.

Fall is my season. If you’ve read my other writing, this is no surprise to you…I spend all year waiting for fall, and I endeavor with all my might to savor this much-too-short season while it is here. Fall, for me, embodies hope. And it does so with a deep, heart-wrenching melancholy.

The aspens are coming alive, shimmering into their golden gowns. I am convinced that dryads are real, tangible beings…dancing, chanting in some ancient, forgotten way that only the mountains and forest creatures now know. The shadows lengthen, and the air tingles - gently shocking us awake from our summer stupor. Fall is expectant. Alive. And achingly hopeful.

As I lit my little candle and settled into my cushions and couch, I watched the sky turn the thinning storm clouds purple, staining their edges with vibrant watercolor strokes. My candle’s flame flickered, and I began to wonder if heaven will have a fall.

I couldn’t answer the question…but I felt that Jesus understood the precious ache that claims my being when fall settles upon these mountain heights. It’s the ache of hope. For renewal, for new beginnings, for all that could be...and all that will be. It’s the rush we feel on the first day of school. The longing for home. The call to slow, to sonder, to savor all that is beautiful. To give ourselves again to the intent of deeper knowledge. It is, in some ways a longing for Eden, for intimacy with our intended identity. A longing to finally be held in the arms of Christ. For Him to look into our eyes and say, “Well done.” To be at long last…at home.

“Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.” - Hebrews 11:1

I think we sometimes feel as if hope should always be jubilant, happy, carefree, or light. And while hope should certainly inspire joy and peace within us, I think it is more multifaceted than this. Within hope, I see an entire geography…mountain paths and spilling valleys, mossy boulders, and shining oceans. I see the courage, the work, the waiting, the sorrow, and the depth of delight and devotion that hope demands. I feel the ache of hope, and I know that Christ is aching too.

We hope for His return. We hope for a new heaven, a new earth, for our Eden home. Fall is somewhat of a paradox. Within its season and rhythms, we watch the earth let loose her summer green. We grasp hold of harvest fruits, and play with falling leaves. We wrap ourselves in warmth while the forests embrace their barrenness. Earth claims her rest while we pick up our books and pull on our boots. In the death of summer’s verdure, we are filled with an effervescent passion for life, for becoming something more than we ever were. Amidst the sorrow, there is joy. Within the hope of victory, there can still exist the pain of today’s waiting. And so, as the days lengthen, both nature and man turn inward…we adjust our scope and magnify that which provides us with a sense of belonging and peace.

Hope doesn’t doubt the outcome. We already know the end of the story. But that doesn’t mean we don’t feel with alacrity the chaptered seasons of the tale we belong to. As we mature, we acknowledge the reality of the fallen world we live within, while living with growing fervor within our God-given identities. We rest within His promises and character while confronting the grief of culture’s despair. We run with endurance, even while the path is fraught with difficulty.

Fall, for me, is God’s invitation to ask the questions we never dare speak, to wonder, to desire, to awaken in awe, and to embrace the paradoxical melancholy of hope.

“We are not yet what we shall be, but we are growing toward it. The process is not yet finished, but it’s going on. It’s not the end, but it’s the road.” - Martin Luther

Our hope is a road. A map with missing pieces. A geography of trust, of truth, and endurance. It’s an invitation to grow, to become, to deepen. I think Jesus loves to linger with us in the melancholy of hope….intimate with our sorrows, with the grief of this aching world—He leans in and whispers, “I’m here. And one day…you will come home.”