As I’ve read stories from the Bible, I’ve found myself interested in my definition of the word hope. I don’t think I’m speaking out of turn when I say most people in our culture don’t understand the term. They equate hope with not much more than a characterless wish that some life experience will turn out for the best—or all life experiences will turn out for the best.
If hope is only a verb meaning “wanting something to happen or be the case,” it seems passive. It’s a sort of namby-pamby admission that although I believe God’s promises are true, the best I can run toward is an uninvolved, apathetic sort of weak-kneed armchair faith. That kind of faith expects only a God who understands my limitations in the belief department and loves me anyway.
I hope heaven is real. I hope I get to spend eternity there. I hope the Lord is true to his promises.
For years, based on what I believed of hope, I couldn’t connect with folks of faith in scripture who were inspired by the Holy Spirit and wrote about their hope. How could they have walked and talked with God and Jesus and had only hope (a wish) that they would finish the race in his presence?
Such a wimpy idea didn’t work for me. It almost seemed disingenuous to say I hoped or wished for things I couldn’t see. I knew they were real—as real as the iPad I’m writing on or the wrong-colored pants and shirt I wore today for choir. Even more so. There are times when I could almost explode from the reality of life unseen and promises yet to be unwrapped.
So how was I to reconcile what I knew to be real with what I thought was a correct definition of a single word?
One day the Lord clearly said to me, “Is hope only a verb?”
I immediately looked for scriptures with the word hope. When I read them with hope as a noun, the skies burst open, and blessing after blessing fell into my heart.
Hope isn’t static. It’s not flat, spiritless, or wavering. It’s moving. It’s unpredictable. It’s a strong and confident expectation that what my heart knows is true and real will one day be seen with my eyes.
My hope is that heaven is real. My hope is that I will spend eternity there. My hope is in Jesus. It has made all the difference.
Although hope is a noun, it’s incredibly active. It calls me to be alive in every moment. Hope is a land, a green tree, the place I pitch my tent. It’s not a dream. Check the following verses out. Use the noun, not the verb.
When life is heavy and hard to take, go off by yourself. Enter the silence—bow in prayer. Don’t ask questions: Wait for hope to appear. Don’t run from trouble. Take it full-face. The “worst” is never the worst.
—Lamentations 3:28–30 MSG
Before you know it, his justice will triumph; the mere sound of his name will signal hope, even among far-off unbelievers.
—Matthew 11:21 MSG
People of all nations, celebrate God! All colors and races, give hearty praise! And Isaiah’s word: There’s the root of our ancestor Jesse, breaking through the earth and growing tree tall, tall enough for everyone everywhere to see and take hope! Oh! May the God of green hope fill you up with joy, fill you up with peace, so that your believing lives, filled with the life-giving energy of the Holy Spirit, will brim over with hope.
—Romans 15:12–13 MSG
The lines of purpose in your lives never grow slack, tightly tied as they are to your future in heaven, kept taut by hope.
—Colossians 1:5 MSG
We who have run for our very lives to God have every reason to grab the promised hope with both hands and never let go.
—Hebrews 6:18 MSG
At least there is hope for a tree: If it is cut down, it will sprout again, and its new shoots will not fail.
—Job 14:7–9 NLT
And listen to this if you’ve only wished:
I saw God before me for all time. Nothing can shake me; he’s right by my side. I’m glad from the inside out, ecstatic; I’ve pitched my tent in the land of hope.
—Acts 2:27–28 MSG
I believe the power of prayer cocoons us in safety as we individually or corporately petition God. I believe prayer is an energy field that repels the Enemy’s darts from puncturing our faith, our passions, and even our dreams. It’s one of the reasons I have dogs: I love walking around the house while talking to God, so if neighbors chance to see me dancing, singing, or just talking, they will think I’m playing with my pets.
I believe connection with our Father God and our best Friend, Jesus, should be the most natural, commonplace, normal thing we do.
So I asked the Lord to give me more opportunities to live out of my hope. The realness of hope, not just a wish.
Then a conversation happened at work, propelling me into one of the most normal adventures of my life.
I stood behind the cash register at work at a Christian bookstore. On a counter behind me, we’d displayed the book Heaven Is for Real, marked on sale. One day a tiny lady probably my age (young!) came through the line. I, as per protocol, asked, “Would you be interested in purchasing Heaven Is for Real for five dollars today?”
She looked up at me and smiled. “No, thank you.” There was a slight pause, and then she said, “I know heaven is real.”
What I’d learned earlier in the week was forefront in my mind. “Yes, ma’am. Me too.”
She looked me square in the eyes. “I’m going to see it very soon.”
Every energy synapse in my body began firing at warp speed. The air around crackled with electric, spiritual activity. I wanted to take my shoes off. My focus shifted immediately from what I thought was an unusual experience to a confident expectation of the genuinely natural. “Really? How can you be sure?”
She spoke quietly, as though she didn’t want to cause anyone in hearing distance to be uncomfortable. “I have esophageal cancer. I have very little time left. I am moving into hospice next week.”
I chose—surely prompted by the Holy Spirit—to live that moment in the secure assurance of hope. “Wow, you know what? I have a friend who died just a couple of months ago from that same thing. He’s home now. His wife, one of my dear college friends, died several years ago too. I love knowing they are together now. And I love knowing I will see them again. When you get home, would you find Chris and Vicky Dell and tell them I said hey and can’t wait to see them?”
She looked up at me, and tears filled her eyes. The reality of her bright future filled with a secure, real, substantial, tangible hope suddenly crystallized for her. She wasn’t scared. She didn’t have to be. She suddenly realized there was and always would be work for her to do. She was important.
I asked her if I could pray with her. She nodded. Walking her to the end of the counter, I took her hand. I thanked the Lord for the opportunity he’d given me to meet that precious lady I knew I would see again. I thanked him that his promises are true, and I thanked him for the hope of heaven.
When I finished, she looked up at me and said, “Chris and Vicky Dell, right?”
“Yes, ma’am. Chris and Vicky Dell.”
“I will find them.”
I watched as she walked out the doors into the sunlight.
The vacuum—the feeling that nothing else in the world was really real and that nothing was more significant than that single moment—slowly evaporated. But the sweet aroma of what it feels like to be in a position of real normalcy and the standard of how I should live my life overwhelmed me.
Suddenly, the curtain between the natural and what I always felt was the supernatural was far less defined. I felt as though that little lady’s transformed body would soon merely walk around the corner to a cool, familiar restaurant where she’d not yet been. And I knew my friends would be there.
I was sure that when she got there, she’d find my buddies and say hey for me. I imagined the Master Chef preparing a fantastic meal at that cool little restaurant. I hear the Master Chef preparing the meal is impressive, far beyond five stars, since he is the One, after all, who created the entire star system.
I am confident I will see that precious lady again. That’s what is normal. That’s where I have pitched my tent. That is my hope.
Hope is feeling the grass of heaven beneath my earthbound feet.
