Hope

And now these three remain: Faith, Hope, and Love.

Somewhere between there and here I lost hope. It wasn't intentional, and saying that I lost hope conjures a different connotation than what actually happened. I misplaced hope, I forgot about it and went on my way. I didn't know it was even missing until miles later.

Traveling without hope is like driving through eastern Oregon. The roads are straight and flat, the speed limit is slow, and there is absolutely nothing to see. With misplaced hope, the whole world is eastern Oregon. Nothing ever changes; it hasn't in the past miles, and it won't change up ahead either. Just more road, stretching out through barren scrub beyond view into another days journey.

Then comes the part where hope is truly forgotten: acceptance. Complete, resigned acceptance. Acceptance of the road, acceptance of the dry scrub, acceptance of the speed limit. The only hope now is a good CD. Such a good CD that the journey isn't that bad. And so it plays over and over. Over and over until it too is a straight road in the middle of nowhere. Acceptance.

Somewhere around the 5th or 6th burned out CD, the mind drifts to images of a long ago, of green, of curves, of speed, even of stoplights. What was different then? After some romanticized fantasy, the mind corrects and realizes nothing was different then, the location was the same as here. The only difference was the outlook. Then, grass, green grass was possible, and it was so. Curves in the road were a distinct possibility, and behold, there they were. It could have been that someone forgot to put of speed limit signs and the local jurisdiction was not so inclined to enforce arbitrary laws on an empty section of road, and no trouble seemed to come from it. There were random stop lights in that road too, that burned red for minutes on end, but overall, a worthwhile drive.

But for now, the dry brush and cheat grass slide past the windows and retreat in the mirrors. How could they grow without water? A sillier thought never crossed the cranium; this vegetation is all dead. But still, at some point they had to grow. And since nothing exists forever, it stands to reason that some previous plants grew before them, and surely more will come after these. What if the seeds sprouted when it rained: what if it rained? A silly stream of thoughts this time; there are no clouds in the sky. Yet, what if?

Beyond what if, why can't it rain? What is preventing a cloud from coming over that horizon, as far off as it might be? This is Oregon after all, and much of it is green. Perhaps a cloud could shirk it's duties in Portland and escape out here.

And that slight elevation up ahead, might there be a curve beyond? The road is familiar, experience says there is no curve. But perhaps there is construction, just a slight slip to the right to avoid the ranks of orange barrels. That would be something, it would be a change from this endless line.

Atop the hillock, the view reveals more straight road. It also reveals a cloud.

How does hope remain? Unaccepting thankfulness.

A cloud, rejoice! Praise the Lord of the Heavan's for this gift of a cloud! He can do all things, and all things are possible through Him! Thank you, Creator of Clouds! Faith has given way to the seen. Hope has found its end. Love's patience has conceived.

Will it give rain? Will there be a curve in the road? I hope so. I may drive for miles more, and it may not rain, the road may not curve. Yet, I cannot accept a rainless cloud. I may even reach my destination (where the grass is green, the road curves, and speed limits are just out) before it rains, but to settle for less is to stop on the road entirely.

Hold the CD for now, I like the sound of rain on the roof.