a pesky thing called hope

Like many creatives, I struggle to find my voice and vocation. It’s why, for many years and even still at times, I switch the subject when people inquire if I’m an artist myself.

What do they mean, I wonder? Or how do I explain? I usually defer with a soft, “I’m artistic, but not a true artist” or “I’m an arts consultant, not an artist.”

These don’t quite seem to capture it, but close enough for most days.

But - as I have journeyed through this season, and as I feel it drawing to a close, I find that my heart feels more stretched than my nine month pregnant belly. I find that I keep getting drawn towards…

Well… this pesky thing called hope.

And that hope makes me an artist.

a pair of sweet eyes

Recently, I was eating with the sister of my soul and her baby son. I love this little boy so much. I prayed for his conception, aching alongside my friend as she waited and hoped. I prayed for him during pregnancy, so full of eager excitement to meet him. I prayed through his delivery, awake with pregnancy-induced insomnia and delight.

Oh - this sweet boy has a treasured place in my heart. There are few things that are sweeter in this life than being his auntie.

Towards the end of our meal, I watched from the corner of my eye a male waiter, who had been our waiter, lean towards a female coworker. He seemed interested, she seemed oblivious. “I wonder…” I motioned for the sister of my soul to look on as well.

The situation made me think of another friend, and I inquired if my soul’s sister knew anyone we could fix her up with.

She didn’t. Then I laughed at myself, “I guess, even after everything, I’m still a sap…”

She looked at her son, “that’s because Auntie is an artist…”

Drat. I thought. She’s right.

(The very thing I’d been avoiding admitting was thrust upon me. Hope. It’s a a sneaky, pesky thing, rising when we least expect it.)

I looked into the sweet eyes of that baby boy and nodded, “Yes, sweetie. You’re auntie will forever be trying to bring beauty into this world, and I don’t think there is anything quite as beautiful as precious babies like you…”

You see - I believe God created out of gratuitous, expansive love. He didn’t create out of need. He doesn’t need us or the world around us. But he created anyways, even knowing what would befall, out of love.

To love is to want to create. To co-create life with God. Oh - there are a myriad of ways to do that. Artists create with God constantly, even if they are unaware of it. For truly, all beauty, all goodness comes from him. Even atheist artists are testifying to a Creator when they create something and call it ‘beautiful.’

I also believe that motherhood is one of the highest creative acts there is. Your body and heart co-creating with God. Whether your child came through your own womb or another’s, motherhood turns you into an artist. You suddenly find yourself co-creating a life for this babe with God, and that takes tremendous courage and hope when faced with the realities of this world. It also takes tremendous creativity, for you will have to discover what brings beauty and goodness for your family, which will likely look different than the families around you.

There is nothing more creative than love. And love, demands at its core, hope in order to carry on. There is no such thing as a truly hopeless romantic, in spite of what the poets say. Poetry hinges on longing, and longing hinges on the hope, even a miniscule one, even an impossible one, of a beautiful outcome. We’ve all seen the ‘art’ that is mere propaganda of the age, the sort that promotes nihilism and despair. It doesn’t last… it may evoke emotions powerfully, but it doesn’t last. No - think of all the truly beautiful art in this world, even modern art, and you will find that somewhere, hidden even like a single line in a song of lament, is hope.

(This painting was a gift from a friend. I think she found it through Etsy, but I am not sure of the artist.)

a pesky hope

I am scared of hope.

And I am in a season where everyone is encouraging me to have it. Hope seems to sneak up on me, waiting to pounce on my frightened heart, pushing itself into its dusty corridors, yanking on its squeaky doors. It says we have lived in darkness too long, and at last, we ought to come into the light.

Yet - I am scared.

My life has not been an easy one. I don’t suppose anyone has an easy life, really. But the suffering I have endured has left me wounded. I have endured childhood sexual abuse, chronic health issues starting when I was teenager, the death of much of my family, including all my grandparents and my own father, then betrayal, abandonment, and more abuse in what should have been a relationship of safety and godliness. Sometimes, I feel broken beyond repair.

There is an art form called kintsugi. It comes from Japanese tea culture. Ceramics made for the service of tea were a high art form, taking incredible time and care to create. The story goes that once, two famous tea masters were sharing tea. A servant of one dropped a tea vessel, breaking it into five pieces. His master was very angry, threatening punishment. The other tea master stepped in, saying to let the offense fall on him instead. The servant’s master, moved by his friend, didn’t punish the servant. But - the vessel was still broken. The visiting tea master picked up the broken pieces, gentle and contemplative. He took them and mended them with lacquer and gold. Then he gave it back to the other man, showing him how the vessel was now even lovelier than it was before.¹

This has become a metaphor, or perhaps God always meant it to be one, for how Christ can come, gently and softly, stepping into our place of deserved punishment, and restoring the broken pieces of our hearts.

Oh - I believe in Christ’s ability to do so. I hope and pray for it for others. All my work as an artist and a consultant hinges on this hope.

But - I find myself hesitant to grasp it for myself. I sometimes feel that I have been shattered into thousands of pieces, perhaps even ground into a powder. I feel beyond repair.

And I try, try with all my heart to attest to God’s goodness in spite of this feeling. I may be nothing but powder and shards, I think, but I will still cling to his goodness and love, even if it doesn’t look abundant in my life. I say, with Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego, “even if not, He is still good…”

Because, truthfully, I have come to know what praising him amid suffering looks like. I know how to do that, painful as it is. I know how to look forward in hope to the resurrection that is to come.

I don’t know how to praise him in goodness. I don’t know how to hope for good things in this life, at least not for myself.

A few months back, I heard a homily that referenced a particular Scripture. The verse has rattled around in my head, a call to hope. I kept shoving it away. It must be meant for someone else, or rather, it affirms, as I do, that we will see God’s goodness in this life, even if it feels like drops of water on a dying man’s tongue. Then a few weeks ago, a friend texted it to me after reading one of my Lenten blog posts. Ugh… I sighed. I was quite vexed. Then a week or two ago, our priest, I suppose inspired by the Holy Spirit, had the gall to reference the verse again, even though his homily was on a different topic.

“I would have fainted, unless I had believed that I would see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.”

Psalm 27:13.

I figured I would look at the context of the Psalm as whole, to prove that he was speaking of a purely future hope, or a middling present one. He isn’t. The psalmist is recounting the difficulties of his present life, AND confirming that he believes God will do something about it in this life. He isn’t referencing a hope that will come after death, in the future resurrection. He is talking about hope for the present.

My response was incredibly mature - “Leave me alone, hope! It hurts to feel you! I don’t want to have hopes for this life. I want to continue on as I have, clinging to God even when it is dark and painful. I know how to do that.”

Hope hurts. It hurts because it opens ourselves up to love fragile, broken, imperfect people and things. Hope hurts because we will have to face rejection and disappointment. Hope hurts…

You see - in the past two years, it has felt like the hope has hurt worse than the suffering. When I was in a season, where for eighteen months straight, I woke up to stomach pain and GI issues, it was the hope that it would eventually go away that seemed to cause the pain. It was the begging God for relief, and the going to bed each night in fear, it was the waking with anxiety and pushing myself to care for my son through it all. It was the people praying for me, affirming that God could and would heal, even while he didn’t for months. It was… awful. Hope felt impossible in that season. I slowly let go of it, hoping not for healing, but survival. Trying to look for the tiniest of mercies, the tenderest of touches from God, even as I suffered. I came to see him in the small moments, came to love him even as I lamented. I struggled and screamed, but I didn’t let go of him, and he didn’t let go of me.

I know how to do that…

And God delivered me from that season. But it came like a severing and separating, a turning of my world entirely upside down. It ended with a bang and slam, one that still resounds through my body and mind. Suddenly - I was delivered from the source of a great deal of my anxiety, rescued from the dark forces swirling in our home. Within a few months, my stomach pain and GI issues released their hold, only occasionally flaring now.

Indeed - when I think back on our life in Dallas, it feels, at least the last two years of it, like nothing more than a twisted dream. It recedes ever further away into the past, only coming back at times to haunt. It’s been nine months. And in that nine months, I have experienced more goodness, tenderness, and reasons for hope than I have in the many years proceeding it.

I am grateful. I am terrified.

what if…

What if, I thought, yesterday morning as Little Man cuddled in my lap and I looked out the window. What if…

What if I do taste the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living?

I saw an image of the future, strange and sweet. I saw our little cottage full of moving boxes, Little Man taking his trucks out of them as fast as we pack them. He is excited for his new room, the one big enough for his train set. I saw sweet Azalea Bloom, using them to scoot around the living room. She won’t have taken her first steps yet, saving that honor for our new home in South Austin. I saw a house full of people, packing and loading and laughing and chatting. Helping us move into our new nest, a place to finally be home. I saw my laptop, still with its sharpie marks, sitting precariously on the couch, having just submitted my final project for the semester, a paper on building resiliency and finding healing through art. My body feels stronger, safer than ever, and I meet the eyes of those around me with gratitude and love.

I saw so much…

Then I cried.

What if it, or something like it, comes true? What if I do taste the Lord’s goodness, not as crumbs and scraps, but as a feast after a famine?

Would I even know how to receive it?

why do I need it anyway?

There have been times that I have asked God, “why do I have to believe in this? Why do you want me to believe that I will see your goodness now?”

I have wondered why it doesn’t seem to be enough to affirm that I will see his goodness in the future resurrection and redemption of creation. I wonder why it doesn’t seem enough that I can affirm the goodness of this present moment, eating an orange and a chocolate chip cookie, writing, and watching a storm fade into the distance. Why does he want me to hope there will be good things tomorrow, and next week, and next year, and even in the years to come?

And then it struck me - it’s because I’m an artist.

There is a quote attributed to Martin Luther, songwriter and preacher. In response to the question, “What would you do if you knew the world was going to end tomorrow?” He supposedly replied, “I would plant an apple tree.”

To be an artist is to know that the world may very well end tomorrow, but to still want to leave a legacy of beauty, truth, and goodness. It is to know that all may be lost, and still need to create, just in case.

It is to have endured abuse and abandonment, and still want to create and grow a family - knowing better than anyone the risks - because to love is to create, and one cannot create anything worthwhile apart from love.

It is to know one’s writing may never be seen more than a fifty people, and still want to write - knowing it will never be a lucrative use of time - because to write is to believe that it may some day be the apple tree another person needs. And even if it is one apple for one person, it is a generous gift that you ache to give.

To be an artist is to know and see intimately into pain and suffering, to have felt the broken vessel, both of one’s own life and others, and still think there is something to create now and preserve for tomorrow. It is to bend down with a little broom and dustpan, taking up even the tiniest of fragments, and seeing them as precious, still capable of bringing beauty into this world when entrusted to pierced hands of our Creator.

It is to hope, love, and create, in order to image God, knowing it’s risky.

1. Fujimura, Makoto. 2020. Art & Faith: A Theology of Making.