The Season Called Hope

Express Monorail/Creative Commons

For many, the Christmas season is a difficult one.

The hurting have perfected their smiles and cued the proper phrases. Facades are in place and sorrows safely tucked away. Memories are tamped down, snuffed out, and extinguished until it’s deemed appropriate to resurrect the past. (After all, Christmas is a happy time and it wouldn’t be fair to rain on someone else’s holiday.)

We’ll placate the ones with recent losses and say all the “right” things and extend common courtesies lest we offend. But deep down…deep down, we’re only too glad to rush home to our own families, hug our own children, and be glad that we’re the untouched. The ones who aren’t hurting. This time.

It’s no secret that I wear my heart on my sleeve. If you’ve followed this blog for very long, then you know I have a heart for the underdog, as well as the afflicted.

I’m burdened for the sad. The discouraged. The hopeless. The helpless. The ones who mourn.

I believe God gifts us with the spirit of discernment. We know when things seem off-kilter with folks.

We can ignore.

Refuse to acknowledge.

Pretend it’s only our imagination.

How we choose to respond to God’s nudge is up to us.

Like this week.

When I discovered something that pricked my heart and jolted my comfort zone.

During the past ten or so years, we’ve had the same rural trash collector. “Barbara” (not her real name) rarely misses Monday morning pick-up. In fact, during the time she’s provided service to our family, her truck’s only been out of commission a handful of times, and then, she’s usually come that same week once the truck’s back in operation. I can’t remember the last time she’s missed a collection date–it’s been that long ago.

Another bit of history: Unlike the big name sanitation collectors, if we have additional trash (like, say around  a major holiday) Barbara has never charged extra. Her quarterly fee is only a third of what major companies would charge so we always place a few extra dollars in an envelope and tape it to our garbage can. That’s how it’s done in our neck of the woods. We are blessed.

Barbara also mails out Christmas cards to her customers. She’s quiet, unassuming, and hardworking. She goes the extra mile in assisting the elderly and disabled with their service needs. In short, she’s a jewel of a lady. 

I’d known for a while that Barbara’s husband had not been well. In fact, he was hospitalized for a time several months ago. 

On Monday, Barbara came for pick-up a bit earlier than usual. One of her customers hadn’t set the garbage cans out yet. Leave it to Barbara to knock on her customer’s door and assist in getting the trash cans out.

“Say, how are you today, Barbara?” my mother asked.

“Oh, I’m fine. Just fine.”

“And your husband–how’s he doing? Is he feeling better?”

Mother said Barbara paused. “He died in November.”

He died in November.

My heart dropped to my toes when Mother told me.

There was no disruption in service. Never a pick-up missed. No clue to Barbara’s heartbreak.

Since hearing the news, I’ve thought of ways I might bless Barbara. I understand her husband was a believer.

Still, during this Christmas season, in the season we call “hope,” this story has made me reflect on those whose hope may be in short supply.

While many of us will celebrate the birth of a risen Savior, some will question hope’s existence because hurting hearts aren’t rational. In their brokenness, some may turn away from truth.

Let us not judge, malign, or worse, ignore the silent cry of a wintry heart.

It’s my prayer that we, as Christians–in this season of hope–extend to others the blessed solace of His healing balm.

Through our words.

Through our actions.

And with open arms extended.

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What are other ways we can offer hope during this Christmas season?

Photo Credit: Express Monorail/Creative Commons

Blessings Always,