Impossibly unspecific hope
the kind we find in details
In a gorgeous Advent post this week, writer Laura Fanucci said, “This time of year I can believe in anything, even angels, even dreams, even stars, every impossible twist of everything we knew.” And, oh yes, I thought, me too.
This week I’ve felt a shift toward hope in the impossible and the impossibly unspecific. This is not a usual course for me. Normally in my prayers, I tread over the same old list of ‘please God do this’ -es over and over again, but lately I feel an expectation of God moving into things and shapes which I can’t yet see, and this is… refreshing. For the first time I can remember, I’m holding out open hands with more trust and less definition, more anticipation and less control, more letting go and less holding on. And I’m wondering, is this what a regulated nervous system feels like, or is it the happy effects of caffeine1, or maybe a reaction to all of the Marian feast days I love? Is this the kind of faith that becomes semi-mandatory when the world seems to be spinning out of control, or is this, finally, what grown-up faith looks like?
Anyway, I like it.
This week, I’m taking in signs in the things I read and hear and see, and I’m wondering with hope at where they are pointing. I’m taking tons of seemingly random photos on my phone, capturing some of the things that are telling me: remember this. And you might just say that I am treasuring these things and pondering them in my heart, like another Lady we know.2
Like the sunny school hallway full of the schoolyard plants they brought in for the winter and which now smells like sweet basil in December. Like the piece of plastic purple that looks like a child’s drawing of an idea. Like the four-way arrow with one highlighted direction. Like the gorgeous depiction of Our Lady of Guadalupe and Juan Diego we found at St. Cecilia’s in Boston3. Like the rain-soaked berries that will feed a neighborhood animal even in the darkness of winter. Like baby green plants growing up even among dying fall leaves. Like a discarded teabag message that offers needed encouragement. Like a stuffed sun holding a cloud. Like a guardian angel pin I found in my pocket. Like a spray-painted direction telling me to just keep walking.
And what does it all mean? Nothing, maybe, or everything or possibly something, but today I’m grateful for the idea that our God is big, bigger than we can describe or control and yet personal enough to lift our eyes and spirits as we walk out our paths. He is light in a dark world. The smell of spring and Providential sustenance even in the darkness of winter. Encouragement and direction to move forward even when we don’t know how or even where. The reminder that we are so far from alone. We’re beloved, and we can see this and experience it and believe it even now, if we will take the time to look.
art by Nancy Marek Cole, at St. Cecilia Boston
As I finished writing this piece for you, I was startled by the sound of a flock of geese outside my window. Or maybe they were the trumpeter swans that writer Laura Fanucci spoke of in that post I mentioned earlier. It’s the kind of sound that breaks through, that shocks, that makes you pay attention, a sound which heralds something new. This is an Advent kind of sound, the kind that makes you want to look up. Let’s do that.
Raised Catholic rewind:
Raised Catholic ep. 168 - The Spiritual Practice of Awe - transcript with link to episode
Raised Catholic ep. 162 - The Delivery People - transcript with link to episode
Raised Catholic ep. 103 - Christmas Changes Everything - transcript with link to episode
What I’m reading/listening to/recommending:
Book: How to Walk into a Room: The Art of Knowing When to Stay and When to Walk Away, by Emily P. Freeman
Podcast: We Can Do Hard Things, with guest Ross Gay
practice: bring a hard-working someone an unexpected coffee or smoothie this week, receive joy in return
Song: Light of a Clear Blue Morning, by The Wailin’ Jennys
Prayer:
Oh God, in this third week of Advent, help us to experience your joy. Help us to open our hands to trust in your Providence, even in the dark. Show us your light even here and help us to be light, too.
For us and our dear ones we pray in the name of Jesus and wrapped in the mantle of our Mother Mary, amen.
I am a teacher in December, after all. Coffee is non-negotiable.