We’re definitely not in Kentucky anymore, Bubba. There is no fall weather, at least not that we can tell yet. No leaves changing color. No die-hard Cats fans talking about how they can’t wait for basketball season to start.
There are more differences among the population that just their anticipation of Midnight Madness. Houston is a very diverse city (cue Toby Mac). That seems obvious with the large Hispanic population, but it’s more than that. The hospital is teeming with patients and staff from all over the world. My doctor and research nurse are from India. Two of the nurses who administer my chemo are Filipino. There are Muslims wearing traditional hijabs. We’ve met people from Colorado, Arkansas, Oklahoma, and other places.
Despite the ethnic and cultural differences, there is a common thread among all these peoples. And it’s not just those in the hospital or in Houston. It’s common among us all and it comes from the core of our very being as humans. There are many answers for it, but only one that is true. This common denominator is universal. It’s the longing for hope.
I’ve been feeling rough for a few days. My hemoglobin is low, so an everyday task like climbing the stairs leaves me short of breath and needing a rest. Somehow I’ve hurt my ankle, which is odd since I’m not really doing anything other than walking. And then there is my appetite, or, more specifically, lack thereof. I’m usually nauseous, which makes it hard to eat. Honestly though, I’ve felt worse, and I’m still thankful that I’m not cooped up in a hospital room all the time and that we’re moving into an apartment today (and I’m thankful for ESPN).
This whole journey has brought us perspective. Each time we encounter something unexpected –good or bad—God broadens our viewpoint. So, in spite of my complaining above, I am aware that I’ve got it pretty good. No doctor has told me, “You’re incurable,” unlike a family member of someone we met here. Best of all, we have had hope from the very beginning. Sure, there have been moments (and hours) of doubt, but we do not deny the Source of our hope.
We’ve met several people here, most of them patients or family members. Some obviously have hope; others, painfully, do not. Some place hope in doctors, others look to chance or fate. Some want miracles, but do not know the Source from which they come. As believers, it’s clear…
Through him [Jesus] you believe in God, who raised him from the dead and glorified him, and so your faith and hope are in God. (1 Peter 1:21, NIV)
So what does it take for me to get over myself and bring hope to others? I don’t know what God is doing by bringing us to Houston. I don’t have it all figured out. You probably don’t either in the context of your own life. But, I do know that in the meantime, we are to “be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer” (Romans 12:12). That’s God’s will for us.
We live in a fallen world. There will be pain and tragedy until Jesus makes his triumphant return. Until then, the longing for hope will continue to grow. Maybe seeing the hope that you have is just what your doubting neighbor needs to see. Maybe my hope is what another patient needs to experience to point them toward Jesus. I’m admittedly not very good at reaching out to people, but all we need to do is love them and let God do the rest.
“But now, Lord, what do I look for? My hope is in you. (Psalm 39:7)