I was never gifted a Hallmark card
That offered hope as something
I could hold on to.
Hope has not appeared as
Feathers or soft beautiful things
Hidden in away during difficult times.

The Hallmark version of this theological virtue
Lead me to misunderstand hope as
Comfort-without-substance,
As a ruse trying to distract me from despair.

But I am no stranger to hope,
Which takes an unexpected form.
It feels like
A pebble in my shoe I cannot reach
That will not let go when I shake it on the sidewalk.
Hope threatens blisters and,
With ongoing irritation,
Reminds me that
I am alive,
I am living,
My story is not done yet.
My living humanity is
Divinely gifted,
Wonderful and complicated,
A thing worth pursuing.
This message doesn’t arrive as the
Expected comfort and calm I long for
But as as a wound that insists on my full attention.
Unlike cards of empty promises,
This hope is a constant disruption
Emerging from lament
With all of the joy and attractiveness
Of nagging voice from cranky relatives
I am trying to ignore.
It is not a diversion from sorrow
But the transformation of
Grief fully formed and felt.
Hope emerges as our livingness
Our aliveness
Our humanity
Not yet completed.