While I was on silent retreat this past winter I found myself drawn to the psalms. I came to the retreat with my own litany of woes, and heard in the voice of the psalmist the faith-through-troubles that was characterizing my spiritual life.
My spiritual director suggested I pick out a few to carry around with me for a day or two, so I went to the psalms with my notebook and pen and searched for those which spoke to me. I expected to find verses of lament, those in which God is implored to end the pain that oppresses the psalmist.
Instead, the verses that resonated with me were those of faith and hope. Even though I was tired and confused and a little bit angry, My heart was still drawn to praise, to be convinced that God’s will is good, that God always delivers us.
I returned to my spiritual director the following day to report this. “I guess I’m just hardwired for hope,” I told him. He smiled and suggested that might be a nice name for a song.
**************************April is the cruellest month, breeding lilacs out of the dead land, mixing Memory and desire, stirring dull roots with spring rain.
I’ve written before about hope dragging me along, about the pain of awakening during this cruellest month. This weekend I walked to the grocery store. I usually drive, but it’s only 15 minutes or so on foot and the weather was beautiful and it seemed the whole neighborhood was out smiling on the sidewalks. I was feeling a little lonely, since schedules had kept me from being able to see my sweetie over the weekend.
As I turned the last corner toward the apartment I’ve outgrown, feeling sorry for myself that I can’t see the people I love as often as I’d like, the shining sun and the happy people and the warm breeze seduced my imagination, and I began dreaming again. It was a variation on the same silly dream as always, that things work out for us just as we like, in a way that keeps us both moving forward in our careers and near our families. In my minds eye I saw a future happiness that I’ve started to despair of ever experiencing.
It hurt. Hope hurts, sometimes. Dreams make me cry for longing and the emotional exertion of counting on a future good exhausts me. But I can’t help it. The sun comes out and life entrances me, and hope creeps back in against my better judgment.