I was newly fifteen-years-old and having a legitimately difficult time at home when I experienced my first fleeting moments of hopelessness. My first love, who is one of the dearest and most sincere people living, was having such a hard time watching what was going on that late one evening, he asked me what he could give me that would help. "Anything," he pleaded. "Ask for it and it's yours." I was frustrated. I could see that he was trying desperately to help, but if I had had any clue as to how to improve the situation, I would have improved it myself already. And in one of my meaner moments, having recently watched "It's a Wonderful Life," I asked for the moon. I asked for something I knew he had neither the power to obtain nor give away so that he would stop asking me questions that seemingly had no answers. But, being him, he simply got quiet for a moment before saying softly, "I can't give you the moon yet. But I will give you a star every month until I can." And thus started the tradition by which every month for years, I received stars hung on chains, drawn intricately on delicate paper, etched into soda bottle caps and painted on canvas.
That response to my mean request taught me my first real lesson about hope. When I was a little girl, I took hope for granted. I assumed it would always exist in reserve somewhere deep within me, just waiting to emerge after I had stumbled or discovered yet again that the world was not as I had originally perceived it to be in some way. It turns out that there are moments in life when hope seems lost. Which is why it must be tended to. That reserve I had assumed was fed by an endless and invisible well must be replenished in order to ensure that it remains viable in moments when it has seemingly run all but completely dry. Every month I was given a physical reminder that even if the ends hoped for are beyond reach... and perhaps beyond reason... it is important to regularly manifest expressions of hope itself. It is perhaps only through these expressions that hope is allowed to spring eternal.
I am not hopeless now... just overwhelmed and tested in my faith. But I was reminded of "the moon" yesterday during a particularly challenging moment and this story seemed like an appropriate way to kick off my new six month blog project. After all, what is the act of expression in the names of connection, accountability and reflection during a period of hardship but a manifestation of hope?
I spent most of my day yesterday helping my eight-month-old daughter Eleanor (better known as Jellybean) through the preparation for, recovery following and consultation in reference to a brain and spine MRI. We left Children's Hospital with referrals for both Neurology and Physical Therapy... so it turns out that we will soon be getting to know areas of Children's Hospital beyond our usual haunts: The Oncology and Hematology admission wing and the Oncology and Hematology clinic. I am overwhelmed. My little girl is struggling (seemingly in a meaningless way) and I don't know how to process that reality in ways that have nearly always made sense to me. I no longer know what to say to God. But I still attempt to pray, even when all I can manage to say is, "I know that you know what is on my heart."
And still, I attempt to hope for the future, even as the present seems just unmanageable enough that hoping for the future seems naive at best. One of the primary ways I am attempting to manifest hope is by tending to my own health, even though Eleanor's needs are the most immediately pressing. If I neglect my health now (my cholesterol numbers are absurd and my Lupus is flaring for obvious reasons), I may not be in any condition to enjoy my little girl's life once we navigate these first stormy years. Taking care of myself feels selfish to me, but I know intellectually that it isn't. So, I am trying. I am trying even though typing this intention makes me feel tired and vulnerable and self-important and self-conscious.
My doctor informs me that breastfeeding helps to guard the heart against certain kinds of damage. Therefore, if Eleanor (turned eight-months-old yesterday) loses interest in breastfeeding at roughly the same time that Samantha did, I have about six months before I lose this protection. I therefore have roughly (perhaps longer... and perhaps shorter but lengthened with the aid of pumping) six months to make my health a priority before... quite literally, and good God what a metaphor... my heart becomes staggeringly vulnerable. So, I write. And I craft goals (week one includes becoming vegetarian again) and I plan and I hope. Because manifesting hope in little ways and in consistent ways can sometimes allow us to reach heights previously unimaginable and to sustain the reality of hope itself.
