Hope

One might call me the victim of hope. Or of a lacking imagination. Or maybe of childlike faith. For as I sit, I see a place I can't quite reach. Its a place I feel I have been given, but the time is somewhere out of reach. Its a land of mountains and valleys. Where greens and blues reign. Where snow falls and trees grow. Where one can stand alone for hours worriless and free. Free to run, climb, dance, swim. No shame, no pride, no pain. Only pure and burden-less joy. And hardly a joy of celebration, only one of the purest satisfaction and gratefulness. A joy that lasts longer than any moment, but permeates the life of the spirit it has attached itself to.

Its a place where a cabin could be built, with axe and saw and mallet. A cabin over a lake of silvers mixed with glass. A place where one could smile at creation and smoke a pipe while watching the sun set. There would be a rocking chair and a telescope, a fireplace too. Then a bed and a bookshelf.

In the summer it would rain, dark and powerful, with enough force to put that feeling in ones throat where nerves and energy meet. It wouldn't be fear, but adventure. And then as fall came, death would be viewed as a necessity to beauty, not only because the land was painted but because one day it wouldn't be. One day we would remember and hope, even as I do now. Except it would be a hope combined with knowledge as opposed to desire. And as winter settled in, rest and poetry would combine with fires and books. A place where stories are enjoyed for courage and self-sacrifice. And then as death would slowly released its grasp, spring would come again, pure and unbridled- the fulfilled and confirmed idea that with every death comes a more incredible beauty. One would walk outside and stare between the mountains and the flowers wondering over each's grandeur.

That land of mountains and valleys, seasons and change would be beautiful, a joy gifted by a painter who imagined it all into life. But that is the sort of land I imagine in my dreams.

And so my point in all these meaningless words is this...we all experience some sort of hope. We all have some sort of idea of what perfection is like. There are moments where I have experienced that sort of joy that proves the presence of the God I recognize. And as I remember and pursue those moments, I meet Him in pictures such as these, where I hope for something I can't quite picture. And to be honest it makes me more joyful to know that I do Him and His perfection no good, because that means His store for us is so much more infinitely simple, and so much more infinitely lovely. And when I realize that perfection, that eternity awaiting me, then I smile and press on, because my God is on my side. And that being said, I hope and pray the same for you. That you would live a life in bathed in the hope of your eternity.

I hope I didn't confuse you, but my thoughts are rambling tonight...hard to put into words.

Andrew