The Million Dollar Question of Hope

By Ko nstantin Sutyagin

Over the past few weeks, I’ve heard the same question from diffeent people.

They all asked that universal question that we wrestle with at different stages of our lives:

“What is my purpose?”

This past week, I went on a hike. It was a sunny day with a cold wind blowing across the top of the ridgeline. I climbed down off the crest to a thickly timbered alcove behind a cliff wall. It was a pleasant spot for lunch, bathed in sunshine yet protected from the gusts.

As I munched a PBJ, I noticed dead leaves still clinging to some of the branches alongside new buds. God still had some spring cleaning to do behind these rocks. As a matter of fact, this was such a secluded spot, I wondered why He even bothered to decorate these trees with leaves…nobody would see them.

Whoops! There goes my urban thinking. Unlike the “outdoors” that I’ve designed with my fertilized lawn, and groomed flower beds, this spot wasn’t created to be decorative. And while no one but me might see the leaves that grew here, each one had a purpose. Each one contributed molecules of oxygen to the whole of this area, region, state, planet. Each one became part of something else.

I figure that it’s the same for us. Those of us who knit or crochet may never win any prizes at the county fair. Those who write may not have their name on the spine of a book. Those who cook day after day may never compete on Iron Chef.

What we will do is stitch, blend, and support each other with our seemingly small contributions.  Even if it seems like it’s a worthless job, or a silly hobby, or something that no one will ever notice,our works are part of the whole.

My friend, nearing the end of her life, bedridden and trapped within the walls of the rehab center wondered if she still had a purpose. She didn’t realize that sharing her stories, was a form of leaving signposts for the rest of us. Her struggle with death helped the rest of us put on our “big girl pants” and draw up our courage and say “yes” to things we were afraid to do.  She didn’t realize that she was giving us lessons.

Each one of us becomes part of something else.

How Do You Like Your Eggs?

To The Dump…

One of our pastimes in college was to go to the dump. I know it sounds weird, but think about it; we were students in need of sofas, lamps, etc. Our bookshelves were made of boards and cinder blocks.

It wasn’t uncommon for someone to shout down the hallway of our dorm, “I’m going to the dump, anybody wanna go?” If four people went, we’d have to haul home big treasures balanced on the roof of the auto with our hands out the windows holding onto it.

Even if you didn’t need any furniture, it was fun going to the dump. Garbage and trash were deposited elsewhere, so it wasn’t smelly with rotting debris. The beginning and end of semesters were a good time to score big items, but the best finds were discovered on Mondays after  the townsfolk had cleaning sprees.

It was one of these Mondays that my roommate and I found the memories of someone’s life. In a pile of beat-up spatulas, one-tined forks, old-Christmas cards, and bags of faded ribbon and crushed bows were a stack of letters.

They were postmarked in the early ’30s. My roomie and I hurried back to the dorm to read the epistles of 2 young lovers separated by miles and poverty.

Though engaged, they addressed each other very formally; and the romance would make a Disney movie look X-rated: “Dear Mr. Billings, I hope this finds you well and in good spirits….The weather has been fickle. Father says…..” and so on.

Migrant Mother by Dorthea Lange. Mother of 7 Children; Age 32

I remember….

What I carry with me to this day is how they lived. Dinner almost every night for the young lady’s family was a boiled egg for each person. During the summer there were some vegetables to go with the egg. The young man, living and working in a city miles away sometimes could afford a small piece of meat, but usually he bought a bone and boiled it with his nightly portion of rice. They never lamented the boredom of their menu, but instead, spoke of how fortunate they were to have it with a glass of milk.

My roommate and I couldn’t get through all of the letters in one night. Not because there were a lot of them—only 13—but we’d read a sentence and find ourselves staring into space trying to imagine such a penurious life. Here we were in a climate-controlled high-rise and had sneered at the mystery meat served in the cafeteria that night. At first we’d read  and chatter, but we dwindled into silence and our own thoughts after the first couple of letters.

The papers became somewhat sacred. We felt invasive as their relationship bloomed and their lives unfolded. We held in our hands the story of a young girl sleeping with 3  sisters in one bed. And miles away, the young man changing the cardboard in his shoes because the soles had worn through.

We were also awed that they never spoke of their lives as impoverished—just the opposite. They were thrilled to simply have what they had. It was a startling lesson for my roommate and I. We had plenty, and we expected even more.

Today

Whenever I read the paper and get sucked into the whirlwind of fear from more layoffs, more banks failing, and more uncertainty, I  ask myself what I ate last night.  It was much more than an egg or a bit of rice.

I say a prayer of gratitude. Many years ago I go to peek inside of 2 lives who simply accepted the times for what they were and went on living. It gives me hope that maybe forty years from now, some college kids will find our memories of 2009 discarded in a dump.  Proof that we made it through  and thankful that what we had—was enough.

Why You Should Look for Lights

One adventursome day, my son and I packed our backpacks and decided that we’d hike the 40 miles around Mt. Hood. We pitched our tents the first night at a beautiful place, Paradise Park, on the shin of the mountain,

The Starseed Lure

When night fell it was even more astounding.  Absolute blackness except for the stars.

We hiked up an adjoining hill and from the peak, we could see the lights of small towns in the distance.  The problem came when we tried to hike back down. We’d bushwhacked our way to the top; there weren’t any trails, and as we worked our way down, the camp wasn’t where we thought it should be.

Fortunately we’d left one small alpine candle lit and hanging at camp. That tiny pinprick of light (which seemed like a beacon to us) guided us back to our tents.

Since then, I always look for lights, and I always try to leave a light burning.

Signs of Hope on the Road to Confusion

Which Way to Go

Before morning breaks into the thin hours of this night, I came to the conclusion that Hope is different than confidence.

Good ol’ confidence is born of success. I remember the first hook I baited all by myself. Then I spit on it for luck and cast it in the pond. I sacrificed several worms before I learned to yank the line after the bobber completely submerged in order to haul a catfish onto the bank.  I became a confident fisher woman, until I took up trout fishing (that’s another story).

Confidence comes in handy when you get behind the wheel of a car after you’ve had a wreck that’s laid you up for several weeks. You ignore the sweaty palms and tell yourself that you can drive because you’ve done it before. And you can do it again.

Confidence comes when you suddenly have to introduce a person, or open your locker at the gym that you haven’t been to  since waaaaay before the holidays. You relax, knowing that the name or combination will come to you. It’s in your brain closet somewhere and you know that if you take a deep breath, it’ll probably roll out on its own.

Hope on the other hand doesn’t need prior experience or success stories.  There are no boundaries or prerequisites.  A girl can hope that the school’s quarterback will ask her out, even if he’s never spoken to her before.  Every writer who sends out a query embeds a piece of their hope in it. Even if they’ve never been published before, they HOPE this is the one that will be accepted. And, I always try to fix my computer by pushing some buttons and then hoping it will work perfectly when I reboot it.

You can see that hope is based on pretty thin stuff.

I think that’s why we look for signs. Little things to grab onto to keep hope alive.  You might study the stock market each day, looking for signs of recovery to support your hope.

When I make a pitch, I look for light bulbs and glowing adoration to shine in an agent’s eyes. (Okay, really, I  just look for a sign that they’re interested.)

When my mother came out of her non-responsive, bed-ridden fog last week, I grabbed onto it as a sign and hoped that she was getting better.

You’re probably a step ahead of me here. Looking for signs is as subjective as trying to figure out if it’s your gut telling you to buy a lottery ticket or divine intervention.

I’m embarassed to admit that it’s taken me a while to see I was basing my hope on the wrong thing. Oh, I receive lots of signs, but they come from faith…not hope.

Faith is the rope that hope hangs onto. You know how they tell you to keep “hangin’ in there.” Well it’s faith that you’re sticking your claws into and holding on as life whips you around.

Faith in God’s ability to care for you. I don’t always see that God cares. I spend a lot of time spiraling off in worst case scenarios before I can get my engine stopped.

That’s where the little signs come in. Out of the blue—a friend calls.  A stranger does a kindness. A sunrise tells me—I’m not alone. Small (or sometimes large) pats on the back, remind me that there is a God who loves me as I am and will take care of me.

It restores my faith. And that give me hope.