I was scrolling
just before the
first Sunday of Advent
and saw this tweet:
That’s a cool idea, I thought. “The Hope candle burns the longest.” It makes sense that we need hope in our lives to burn the longest, to be there, alight, to the—hopefully not-bitter—end. We want it to carry us through. We need it to carry us through when life gets hard.
And then on the first Sunday of Advent life turned hard.
My brother Bob died in an unexpected instant.
Bigger-than-life Bob. Funny, hardworking, servant-of-all Bob.
Suddenly hope seemed in short supply.
Somewhere in the blur of the next few hours, I remembered the post: The Hope candle burns the longest.
It isn’t about my hope, which felt snuffed out. Or at least faltering. It’s about the hand that reaches out to us and holds us tight. “The Hope candle burns the longest,” I whispered to myself over the next few days. “The Hope candle burns the longest,” I voiced to people as they expressed their sympathy. I breathed it in. I breathed it out.
Today, I went back to find the tweet and discovered that it referred to a blog post from April Fiet. I read the blog. It’s beautiful. There was much. There was this:
“We are called to be a people of hope,April Fiet
not because we have some extra ability to remain hopeful
but because we believe in the one who is the source of all hope.
We hope because Christ is the hope of the world.
And, when we can no longer hope on our own,
we run to the one who will hope for us.“
Maybe you need hope this Christmas as well. Read the post. April Fiet says it better than I ever could.
Then grab the hand of the God who hopes for you. I’m doing the same. Breathe in. Breathe out. And whisper: The Hope candle burns the longest.“