Amber wrote about hope and it was good. Our hope is built on nothing less, she said, and I suppose I agree. Hope is more than me with grey hair, her snuggled under my arm in a sun-shaded porch swing, she wrote. Hope is something more eternal, more resurrected, more platinum maybe.
I agree with all that; I really do. But yesterday evening the wind blew long through the tops of the oaks staggered on the hill. They bent in union with the wind, leaves swooshed like landlocked waves. The way the wind rolls leaves up in contagion, it’s a miracle.
The way old lovers bend in union is a miracle, too–the sixty-year olds in porch chairs with his and hers lap dogs; the ones who hold the church up with prayer, and a few choice words; the lovers who haven’t used the word “lover” in decades, but use the word “friend” instead. It takes years to develop that kind of flexibility, that kind of sway.
For in him, all things were created… He is before all things, and in him all things hold together. That’s what the scriptures say.
I hope for the porch swing, for the lazy days of watching the dance of the oak trees with my wife. I’m sure it won’t be perfect, but it will hold together. It will hold together like hope fulfilled, like the hope of glory. It will hold together like creation.
What if hope is found in the holding together? What if?