Nine or so months ago, I wrote that I was not ok. Like then, I’m still trying to remember that God is God, and that millions of people have–and continue to–live through terrible, tragic times and still make art, find joy, share meals, and resist despair. 

But the truth is that I’m still not ok. 

Most days, I feel like all I’m doing is resisting despair. I don’t feel like I’m making art, or finding joy, or spreading goodness in the world. I’m trying to find hope in the dark times, but it feels like an impossible task with starvation in Gaza, war in Ukraine, and tax dollars being spent on a new ballroom. There is plenty of despair to go around and not a lot of energy to resist it. 

Several weeks ago, my friend Dr. Madison Pierce preached a sermon on Romans 5:1-5, which reads: 

Therefore, since we have been made righteous through faith, we have peace with God through our Lord  Jesus Christ, through whom also by faith we have gained access to this grace in which we now stand.  And we boast in the hope of the glory of God. But we boast not only in hope, but also we boast in our trials, because we know that trial produces perseverance; perseverance, proven character; and proven  character, hope. And hope does not put us to shame, because God’s love has been poured out into our  hearts through the Holy Spirit, who has been given to us.  

Early in her sermon, she pointed out that Paul tells us that our trials produce endurance, that endurance produces proven character, and that proven character produces hope. Indeed, we boast in hope. 

Hope. My word for 2025.  

Dr. Pierce continued, 

So the hope of God’s glory could be understood as hope from God’s glory. If we are currently standing in the presence of God, we could understand this to be hope that comes from, is generated by, our present  experience of God. A glimpse of God’s goodness that sustains us for another day.  

But the hope of God’s glory also could be understood as hope for God’s glory… [with] hope for God’s glory, we experience longing for what will be. We stand here with God, glimpsing his gracious presence, but we hope for what is to come. We trust that more is on the horizon. This is a part of our communion liturgy—in that celebration of remembrance, communion, and hope, we hope for a day when we will have full communion with God.  

Hope is generated by glimpses of God’s goodness that sustain us for another day. If we care to look, there is hope in the everyday–even mundane–moments of the day. There is hope in the present.

But, if I’m honest, this isn’t easy for me. The exercise of finding hope in my present experience of God feels like an intellectual exercise. I know that God is with me and sustaining me, but saying that feels like a privileged statement to make. It often feels like I can have hope, or experience hope, because of where I was born and the family to which I was born. To me, the hope of God’s glory feels like privilege. 

But, as Dr. Pierce pointed out, there is also hope for God’s glory. We have hope for what will be, for what is to come, for the day we have full communion with God—hope in the present and hope for the future. I do trust that there is more on the horizon–more peace, more justice, more equity and equality, even more art. 

The question for me, though, is how do we get there? How do we have hope for the future when it feels like there are plenty of people seemingly working hard to destroy as much as possible through total disdain for the flourishing of all humans? How do we get there when we didn’t expect to be here? 

Several days ago, my aunt, Arlene Schoon, died and entered into fuller communion with God. Her hope for the future has been fulfilled. I loved my aunt a lot and I’m going to miss her terribly. She and I were very close, going shopping and to lunch once a month or so, and spending most holidays together. 

The quick and easy things I’ll remember about her include the fact that she loved fried chicken and chicken wings, but not sushi. She loved Coke, but it had to be half diet and half regular. And really, I recently learned, what she loved was Cherry Coke. She loved Necco wafers, but not the brown ones. She loved the beach and the sun. She loved to travel. 

Those are the fun, easy things I’ll remember about her. But here are the important things. 

She loved my mom and took good care of her after my dad died, spending as much time with her as possible. She was a constant, steady presence for my mom, for me, and for so many others. She loved me fully, and by extension, she loved my family and my friends fully. She made me laugh. She taught me generosity and hospitality. She showed me kindness. She told me fantastic stories about her life. She showed me Jesus’ light and love and the path of the Lord. She loved her people and cherished time together. She loved holding hands.

My aunt lived her life with the hope of God’s glory, being able to see glimpses of God’s presence, and she lived with the hope for God’s glory, knowing that her death would bring her more fully into God’s presence. 

Today, my cousin (Aunt Arlene’s daughter) and I went to the beach at Lake Michigan. Similar to how my aunt could, the beach–especially the beauty and grandeur of Lake Michigan in August–is one of the places where I can see glimpses of God. So, for today, and hopefully for the week, memories of my aunt and time at the beach will give me enough hope to resist despair. 

A glimpse of God’s goodness to sustain me for another day and to give me hope that tomorrow can be better.