This summer I read Cold Tangerines by Shauna Niequist, and I found it to be an inspiring and phenomenal read. Her words are lifegiving and honest and all sorts of brave, and I came away from it wishing that I lived my life half as rich and full of God as the author does, or seems to at least. Not that the novel is sugar-coated; it is anything but. The book is honest and vulnerable and messy in all the right ways. It is chalk full of sad stories and hard times and the best kind of transparency. However, it is also hopeful. For every sad telling there is indeed a cheerful tale, but what captivates me about the novel all throughout are the golden streaks of hope.
Hope, hope, hope.
It falls beautifully upon the ears, eyes, tongue, and every flesh and spirit part of us I imagine. Hope weaves itself beneath our very skin, ignites some sort of mad spark within our bones. Hope is what we crave, and hope is what leads us on.
It falls beautifully upon the ears, eyes, tongue, and every flesh and spirit part of us I imagine. Hope weaves itself beneath our very skin, ignites some sort of mad spark within our bones. Hope is what we crave, and hope is what leads us on.
Hope is all that gets me through this hell of a life most days.
It takes various forms, and perhaps this is the overwhelming beauty of it, because hope, at its very core, can take any form. I see it all around: it's with me on every mountain and deep down in the struggles and valleys. Hope is in the midst of fallen tears and riding along the soundwaves of chiming laughter, the real, contagious, belly kind that comes from somewhere deep down. Hope is in the face of that man on the street, and I see it hard when my best friend looks me in the eye and speaks some sort of God truth out to my soul. Hope is in the weary and burdened; hope is in the triumphantly victorious. Hope patiently waits with us while at other times spurs us on to finish races strong. Hope is for me and for you, for us all I truly believe.
Because our Jesus, that man I yearn so badly to be like, made a way for all to enter in.
He brought hope for the young and old.
I find hope so tangibly sweet, so real and raw and amazingly in existence among the young, and I didn't quite realize this until today.
Niequist writes in her book that babies strengthen her faith, that babies help her believe in God a little more than she did before. When I first read her words, I found them heartwarming in a tender way, sort of like when you witness two people perfect for one another get married or that feeling you get on Christmas morning. The concept was beautiful, but it didn't resonate. I remember thinking that I wouldn't fully understand what she meant unless I ever had kids of my own.
Today though, I understood what her words mean. As I cuddled my seven month old nephew, who I've only seen once since his birth, close to my chest, I realized Shauna is right, she is absolutely spot on: babies bring you a little closer to God.
His tiny fingers wrapped around my messy bed head curls felt tight and hard and determined in the cutest infant way. The way he leaned his head into my shoulder was fragile and strong all at the same time. With my arms wrapped around his small but chunky body, all I wanted to do was protect him from anything bad or harmful or scary or mean, but as I looked at his big blue eyes later that day I laughed at the wonder and marvelment and joy found there: he was taking in the world around him, every sound and sight and smell, and I remember feeling so excited for him to grow up and explore this earth with a brave and daring spirit.
Littles are so odd in some ways to me. I find it intriguing, how all wrapped up in that tiny, chunkamunk body of my baby nephew is a personality and power and potential all his own. Each child is like this, every single one. Every boy and girl on this planet is a whole person all their own, and that is absolutely fantastical.
I see God in my other nephew too, my sweet, silly, three year old nugget. I love that boy dearly, and he will always hold a special place in my heart, because he was the first baby to come into this world, he was the one that made me an aunt. He's all happy days and smiley times, and my favorite is when he comes up to you on the couch from behind and wraps his small arms around your neck, just because he's a hugger. He is joy and laughter and all things light, and I see God in that boy more and more every day.
Hope: it's in every breath, every word, every silence, and every song. I see it in every opportunity to learn from a mistake and in every time he gets it right. It's when he reads a book all the way through or counts up to a hundred, plus one. It's in the potential of a person, and it's painstakingly beautiful.
This kingdom truth, this sweet, powerful, Jesus-loving truth is a reminder that I need daily. I need to be reminded that God is in potential, because what this means is that God's image bearing ways are in us all.
This is hope, and it is strong. It changes my mind on those hard, hurting, cynical days. It melts my heart when my insides are turning to stone. This Jesus truth, that we are made to be people of hope, guides my hands and molds my words, and it helps me seek heaven more and love people a little better.
It helps me humanize others, which I'm convinced Jesus was all about.
Hope in the midst of baby cuddles and toddler hugs might be hope in the purest form.
So I guess what they say is true: big things come in small packages.
“It makes sense to me in a new way that God chose to wrap his divinity in baby bones and baby skin. I always thought maybe it was to demonstrate vulnerability, or to identify fully with each phase of humanity, but now I think it was something else. I think it was because babies make us believe in the possibility and power of the future".
-Cold Tangerines by Shauna Niequist
