HOPE IN THE HARD PLACES - June 1998
by Sally Klein O’Connor

"My hope is built on nothing less than Jesus’ blood and righteousness; I dare not trust the sweetest frame, but wholly lean on Jesus’ name" ("The Solid Rock" words by Edward Mote)

Some time ago, living in Boston, I worked as a lunch cook at a downtown restaurant while trying to find out who I was. Originally I came to Boston as an acting major, only to realize that music kept calling my name. So, after two years at Boston University, I left the Theatre Arts Program and took a year off.

That year the doctors at UCLA gave up on my brother’s cancer and listed him as terminal. That same year my parents gave up on their marriage. My mom called up one night to tell me that Dad had moved out. After I hung up the phone I went to a bar, planning to spend the night there, but I only got as far as the first drink. I never liked the taste of alcohol.

I wanted to hit someone or someone to hit me. It didn’t really matter who did what, I just needed to release the feelings that were slamming around inside of me. I wanted to hurt on the outside like I was hurting on the inside. At the same time I didn’t want to feel anything at all.

The next morning I went to my job as usual. I didn’t know what else to do. It was a Murphy’s Law kind of day. For starters, I dropped a large tray of salads in glass bowls. After I swept up the mess I moved along from one problem to the next.

Finally, I cut my finger while slicing up some pineapple and oranges for garnishes. I stuck it in cold water, squeezed, lavished peroxide on the cut and wrapped it up with a big bandage. But it kept bleeding through. I wrapped it two or three more times, hoping it would stop so I could get on with my day. As I think of it now it reminds me of a scene in the movie, "Monty Python and the Holy Grail." King Arthur cuts off all the limbs of his opponent but the guy still won’t surrender. He keeps hopping around, challenging King Arthur, in total denial of his losses. That’s where I was at—in total denial of my losses.

Finally, I went upstairs to the infirmary where they had to stitch my finger up because the knife had actually sliced into a nerve. I started crying and couldn’t stop. I felt like a fool. The moment was overwhelming. I had no ability to see beyond it. It felt as if the ground was shifting beneath my feet and I was falling.

I like to think of myself as a fighter, though during those years there were many times I wasn’t exactly sure what I was fighting for. Maybe, like a swimmer, I kept kicking just to keep my head above the water.

Life went on, so I, also, was supposed to go on no matter what happened. That was what I had learned and sometimes it was all that kept me going. I felt that if I didn’t push on I might die or lose my sanity. So fear kept me moving, even while my hopes and dreams fell around me in ruins. I went on merely for the sake of not standing still.

Somehow I got home that night. In the days to come my hands and feet kept moving but my heart stood still for a long time.

Five days before our youngest daughter Bonnie was born I recorded in my journal an impression I believe the Lord gave me while I was praying. There were four straws in a glass with liquid in it, and one straw was short. I understood those straws represented our family, and that the short straw symbolized the baby. In that moment all I knew was that there was something different about this little life. But when Bonnie arrived she was strong and healthy. I thought no more about the short straw until late last year.

In December our doctor recommended we take Bonnie to a pediatric neurologist because she seemed delayed in some areas of her development.

It was raining the day I brought her in. We spent an hour in the doctor’s office as she watched Bonnie play and asked me questions. But I wasn’t prepared for what she said, even though Mike and I had begun to wonder if Bonnie had some problems. Still, I think it is always a shock when you come face to face with a painful reality that a moment ago was only speculation.

The doctor found Bonnie to be mildly autistic. As she continued talking I found it difficult to focus on what she was saying. All I could think about was how much our lives were going to change. The ground was shifting again.

It was still raining when we left her office. I strapped Bons into her car seat and got in myself. I remembered when my brother died in October of that difficult year. I was back in college, studying music. It was a typical New England autumn. All the leaves were turning colors and falling from the trees. I felt as if the world should stop because I had stopped and didn’t know how to start again. That was twenty years ago.

As I put the key in the ignition I thanked God for His grace to us. He knew what was coming before Bonnie took her first breath. The Bible says that God sees our unformed bodies and knows the number of our days before any of them come to be (Psalm 139). It is a great comfort to me that God not only sees us, but He loves us and has compassion for us. As a fine lyricist once wrote in a song that I still sing on occasion: "Nothing touches you My child that hasn’t first pierced Me".

In April I put together an informal seder at our house, where I shared with the girls the meaning of Passover. One thing that particularly stood out to me this year was the lighting of the candles. That’s how every seder begins. Always at dusk, as the day fades away, before the evening settles upon us, the holiday candles are lit.

The light is like a refuge. Without the light we are left in the dark, unable to see where we are, let alone what lies ahead. But strike a match, light a candle, flip the switch and suddenly we see. Jesus is the Light of the world. It is in His presence that I am able to see the truth of my present situation, and beyond even the most overwhelming circumstances, to a tomorrow, because in His light there is hope.

"I remember my affliction and my wandering, the bitterness and the gall. I well remember them and my soul is downcast within me. Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail. They are new every morning; great is your faithfulness. (Lamentations: 3:19-24)

I am thankful for God’s grace during these last few months. It is one thing to speak about hope and vision in the middle of a concert under the gracious anointing of the Lord. It is too often quite another matter to walk it out each day. More times than not, the words the Lord impresses on my heart to share in a concert are as much for me as for anyone else.

Even as I write this particular piece I realize I am still struggling between the hope God has put in my heart and the sadness I indulged for so many years. It is hard to leave what you know, even when it is bondage in Egypt, to walk through a wilderness, across the Jordan and finally, into the Promised Land. Maybe that is why God had to keep telling Joshua to be strong and courageous. It takes courage to hope in a hard place.

In Isaiah 49 the Lord promises Israel "I will turn all my mountains into roads, and my highways will be raised up." (vs.11) Once again, it is a question of what do I see. Sometimes I see the mountain: a little girl who can’t even tell you her name, who has to have everything done the same way every time or her world falls apart, who often screams and squawks her feelings when other children her age express themselves with words. And in that moment I feel like I am falling again, and I’m afraid.

Other times I see the road, the highway raised up: a child full of wonder and joy who delights in the smallest pleasures, who prays for doors when they get slammed too hard and tickles cheese because she thinks cheese is ticklish, and cares for people and things in this world in a way that I am almost indifferent to. And suddenly I realize that I am blessed.

When fear consumes me I am in a small dark room where today is unsure and tomorrow is impossible. Every change in scene is some giant mountain I don’t know how to climb or go around or get through. In that place there is no space for hope or love. But when I am able to look up and out of my fear to God I see the road He has promised me. And today is possible, and tomorrow is welcome.

As I seek Him first His love gives me strength and I can once again take hold of hope, and I do not hope in vain. For in those moments filled with His grace, my hope is not even in the things of God, His blessings or His ability to heal and redeem, but in God Himself.

"Christ is held by the hand of hope. We hold him and are held. But it is a greater good that we are held by Christ than that we hold him. For we can hold him only so long as we are held by him." ("On Hope" by Josef Pieper)

(c)Copyright 1998 Improbable People Ministries

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