But we had hoped

A letter from my heart to yours as we journey this hard road together

One of the most beautiful, yet heart-wrenching, stories in all of scripture is told in the gospel of Luke. Two of Jesus’ disciples are walking along a rough, dusty road from Jerusalem to the small village of Emmaus, a journey of about seven miles. As they walk, they’re talking about all the events that had occurred over the past days — the arrest of their teacher and leader; his brutal execution at the hands of the Roman state; swirling rumors of an empty tomb but with no risen body to accompany it. Along the road, Jesus himself joins them, but they are not yet able to recognize him for who he is. Their Lord asks why they are so downtrodden, and the woeful tale begins to spill out of them. “Haven’t you heard the news? Everyone’s talking about it! Jesus, our friend, has been crucified,” they tell him. “But we had hoped — hoped he was going to be the one who would redeem us.”

But we had hoped. I can think of no words of scripture more gutting than those. They had dared to believe, been brave enough to believe that what seemed to be impossible may actually come to pass. But now, it seemed as if it were all for nothing. The disappointment they felt! The ache! There’s a reason the proverbs tell us that hope deferred makes a heart sick. Few things in life feel as terrible as placing your hope in something only to have it all come crashing down around you in the very next breath.

But we had hoped. These four words have become a tragic sort of mantra for me in this hard season.

The pregnancy test was negative again, just as it has been for the past two years. They say another baby would be a miracle at this point. But we had hoped.

Our daughter didn’t come out of her room for Thanksgiving. The table was set, a place made for her — she hasn’t spoken more than a few words to us in six months, even fewer the year before that. We’re told it’s typical behavior of people with attachment disorders. But we had hoped.

I never got to have the last conversation I was planning to with my mother. There was so much left unsaid, so many words hiding in the shadowy places of our hearts. She died just as my son was getting to know her. But we had hoped.

There are so many things I’ve kept close to my chest in this season, and I think it’s because I felt ashamed. I hoped — and that hope let me down. I hoped — and it didn’t change a thing. So I felt like a fool, felt like I failed, felt like I must have done something wrong or said something wrong or, worse, am wrong somehow, that I’m defective, that maybe the problem is I’m not…enough.

If hope is the the thing with feathers, reality is a wolf with bared teeth.

And here’s the thing: I’m not going to lie to you. I’m not going to tell you that we always get the happy ending, that everything always turns out just fine, that we always end up getting the thing we hope for. Sometimes we pray with all of our heart and all of our might and all of our soul, and we still come up empty-handed. And sometimes we can’t see any goodness in front of us because we’re stuck in the middle of all this grit, staring down a wolf that’s ready to lunge and gut us to pieces.

Jesus ended up walking all the way to Emmaus with those two men. He sat with them for supper, broke bread with them, prayed … and then he disappeared. He was everything that they had been hoping for, and in an instant, he was gone.

Sometimes the thing we’re hoping for slips right through our fingers. Sometimes we don’t get a second chance at it.

But the thing I love most about these two disciples is what they do after they realized what had happened. They get up immediately, and they go to tell everyone they know what happened along the way. The miracle, you see, was with them on the road, with every heavy-hearted, grief-stricken step they took. The miracle was with them in their sadness, in their confusion, in their anger, disappointment, and pain.

The miracle is with us in ours, too.

Maybe what happens along the way is what really matters. Maybe the testimony that people need to hear is none other than the story of our very own lives, of all the things we hope for, and all the things we never receive, and all the ways in which we keep on walking anyways.

So if you’re here, welcome. If you’re disillusioned, downhearted, and disappointed, you are still welcome. Me, too. You’re not alone; we’ll walk this hard road together. And who knows what will happen along the way.

xo,