The surgeon says my bones are strong. Strong enough to remove the splint that immobilized my arm after surgery, and to do so a week earlier than planned so my elbow wouldn’t lock in place. Strong enough to attach a plate to the solid bone on either end to hold my shattered upper arm together.

Still, hearing those words and believing life will ever feel normal again are two different things.

Not a minute of my (waking) day goes by when I’m not aware of my arm. Invisible stitches pull it taut from the inside, even when the muscles feel relaxed to the touch. There’s an odd disconnect between how it feels on the outside and on the inside; the mixed signals confuse me.

Recently, I saw a verse in Romans that resonated with me: “For we are saved by hope …” (Romans 8:24 KJV) Because I’ve experienced times in the past when I couldn’t find hope, I know its absence cripples me.

Hope is crucial to my existence, especially now.

When I was thinking weeks ago about writing this article, it thrilled me when I easily pinpointed a topic. (Any (in)courage contributor can confirm the search for a topic often takes longer than the writing.) I jotted down some thoughts weeks in advance of my deadline. I felt so ahead of the game.

And then I began to lose hope, and couldn’t write about it.

I should’ve seen the signs I was sliding into hopelessness: I quit filling my diffusers each morning. I woke up one day and decided I didn’t feel like editing my novel. (I’m a workaholic; I could work on the book 24/7). I spent more time dwelling on things I couldn’t do instead of what I could.

Will I be able to hold my new grandchild in March?

Will I ever throw a baseball or go bowling again?

When will I be able to lie on my side comfortably?

Day after day, I told myself I wanted to return to the curb where I tripped, fell, and shattered my arm, but I always found an excuse not to go: I was too tired. I didn’t want to go after dark. And the one I didn’t say out loud: I was afraid all the pain and frustration trapped inside of me since August would break through, that I’d start screaming and wouldn’t know how to stop.

But I knew I needed to muster enough hope to write this article. I needed to move forward again.

So my husband took me to Costco, and I stood on the sidewalk where I fell that awful August day. I went to occupational therapy twice a week, and I asked hard questions about my prognosis. I stopped avoiding discomfort and started to lean into it.

Pain will pave my path to progress. So be it.

For years, I’ve tried to translate my experiences into something relatable to other women, but I know in my bones I’ll find few who share this exact one. Most of us, however, know how it feels to lose hope. To look at our circumstances and struggle to see a way out or a way forward. To lie in bed at night, unsure how to pray because you can’t envision anything that could make things right.

Hope can be even harder to find during the holidays when our pockets may be empty and our relationships strained. When the expectation to decorate all the things, feed all the people, and buy all the presents can stretch our resources and crush our spirits.

But God answers prayer in wildly creative ways. He cares about us. He isn’t restricted by the limited scope of our imaginations (Isaiah 55:8-9 KJV). I think back to a few years ago when I was under an unrealistic book deadline and I came down with shingles in my left eye. Thankfully, I received a four-month extension and turned in a book I was proud of instead of something rushed. It sounds crazy, but that case of shingles was an answer to prayer.

Ours is not only the God of hope but also the giver of it:

“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
Jeremiah 29:11 (NIV)

Don’t despair, for we are saved by hope.

 

Listen to today’s devotion below or on the (in)courage podcast!

Leave a Comment