Part 2: How to Live Full of Hope When the Realest Life Feels Empty

How to live full of hope when the realest life feels empty? I ponder the question as I sit, right ankle iced and propped high. It’s been weeks and counting, and it was silly move, really, the high kick, then slip, then ankle meeting counter’s corner. The slow is forced, but I’m learning to embrace it, listen for beauty in the pace, voice thanksgiving in the nevertheless.

It may be that I listen best when time warps, when I have to live full in every stretched-out minute.

I notice. Number thanks. Again and over again: paper flying like airplanes, fresh raspberries to top granola, news of more closings taken well, a brilliant sunset to enjoy, the swirling, lifting of anointed violin, this here-and-now.

The naming keeps me from taking gifts for granted—keeps me aware that there is always good to behold if I have eyes to see it.

Is it that seeing comes before full living? Must I see hope before I embrace its fullness in the one life I have to live?

Long ago, shepherds gathered under a night sky saw light, and hope entered, and they couldn’t help but to pursue it. I want to read the story again, so I find the lines in The Passion Translation I keep always within reach, read them slow:

That night, in a field near Bethlehem, there were shepherds watching over their flocks. Suddenly, an angel of the Lord appeared in radiant splendor before them, lighting up the field with the blazing glory of God, and the shepherds were terrified! But the angel reassured them, saying, “Don’t be afraid. For I have come to bring you good news, the most joyous news the world has ever heard! And it is for everyone everywhere! For today in Bethlehem a rescuer was born for you. He is the Lord Yahweh, the Messiah. You will recognize him by this miracle sign: You will find a baby wrapped in strips of cloth and lying in a feeding trough!”

Then all at once, a vast number of glorious angels appeared, the very armies of heaven! And they all praised God, singing:

“Glory to God in the highest realms of heaven!

For there is peace and a good hope given to the sons of men.”

When the choir of angels disappeared back to heaven, the shepherds said to one another, “Let’s go! Let’s hurry and find this Word that is born in Bethlehem and see for ourselves what the Lord has revealed to us.” So they ran into the village and found their way to Mary and Joseph. And there was the baby, lying in a feeding trough.

Upon seeing this miraculous sign, the shepherds recounted what had just happened. Everyone who heard the shepherds’ story was astonished by what they were told.

But Mary treasured all these things in her heart and often pondered what they meant.

The shepherds returned to their flock, ecstatic over what had happened. They praised God and glorified him for all they had heard and seen for themselves, just like the angel had said.

Luke 2: 8-20 TPT

It was a routine night, until it wasn’t, and the glory filled the shepherds’ hearts, not just the night sky. They saw first “the blazing glory of God,” then they listened. They leaned in. Theirs was a pure belief, a wholehearted embrace of truth presented, an uninhibited expectation that they would find the One they sought.

“Hark,” that word we know from “Hark! The Herald Angels Sing,” it means “to pay close attention to” or “listen.” It signifies action. The shepherds listened intently to the angels, then responded to glory revealed: “Let’s go! Let’s hurry,” they said, “and find this Word that is born in Bethlehem and see for ourselves what the Lord has revealed to us.” Then, the Scripture says, they ran.

I wonder how long the moments felt for the shepherds. Did the weighty glory stretch the moments eternity-long or did time fly by, rapid-fast? Were all senses heightened or everything a blur?

We do know that the glory-soaked familiar fields, the angelic voices, the first sight of the swaddled babe, were etched into their memory. The passage tells us that the shepherds “recounted what had just happened. [And] everyone who heard the shepherds’ story was astonished by what they were told.”

They must have watched, listened, fully alert—harked so that they wouldn’t forget.

Gratitude prepares the heart to hark

Gratitude, I’ve been learning, opens the eyes to see how God is good and all he gifts is good. But to unwrap his offered hope this Christmas, I need to take action. Engage with what the eyes see, what the hearts whispers “thank you” for. I must listen. Hark.

This morning as the alarm on my phone alerts me to the start of my writing time, I notice through the narrow windows framing the front door that the snow has begun early. Big snowflakes swirl, wet and heavy. Already the rain-brushed grass is turning white. I look up and am drawn in, closer to the window. The snowflakes laden with glory, beauty—each one unique. For this moment, for the joy to come when the children awake, I give thanks.

And it’s not just snow, but God here—every glisten a reflection of his brilliance.

God came down on Christmas—this God full of glory and good. This God who carries hope on his very breath. This God who aches to be near us, known by us, treasured by us. This God who shows us how thanks unlocks joy.

I watch snow but my heart mulls again over the word hark. How do I, with all these gifts written down, not just stop at the noticing. Here at the brink of Christmas, I ponder—how to hark, how to unwrap the hope He gives, inhale His very presence and let the heart drink the fragrance of God-near?

The shepherds were already alert, watching—though not knowing for what they were watching for this very night. This active watching was a way a life, a daily practice. Perhaps it positioned them to see the glory alight in the sky—and perhaps gratitude, this way of life, this daily practice, can keep me alert as well.

When I hark, I take action

First the seeing, then the believing. Why hark God-come and not believe it down to my very toes? The shepherds witnessed glory, then ran. Could I too?

The shepherds sought the King, though unassuming and yet infant, and they couldn’t get there fast enough. What if I, too, ran breathless, every muscle alit, responding to the pull towards the One who brings light, who gifts hope. And when I find Him, would I drop low in reverence, hush the panting breath, continue to hark?

Perhaps the way to unwrap hope is to run towards it. To make its pursuit of preeminence. To be utterly captivated. To be wildly undone. To need, above all else, to be near the Name above all Names, to know this One who is called Hope of the World.

My heart can run ahead of my hobbling steps—this oxymoron, so full of beauty. My running towards Christ, is not self-propelled action, but a letting go. Its surrender to hope so I can see beneath unwrapped layers. It’s joy—of knowing Him who is Hope—bubbling unrestrained in the wake of His presence-come.

Unwrap to share

Then this: the shepherds shared the hope they found. They recounted the story. Perhaps their ecstatic joy doubled with every recounting. Perhaps their gratitude grew every time they voiced thanks for what they had seen.

Why discover hope to keep it hidden? Why taste wonder and feel the touch of glory awaken our hearts and keep still and silent? Jesus is coming—has come—and can we help but to share it?

This unwrapping of hope—this pressing into the knowing that God was and is and always will be, even through the weight of 2020—it’s meant for more than just me. It’s news too good, too large, too beautiful, to be contained in one small heart. What God gives is meant to overflow, and He gives of Himself, and He is Hope—and I discover Him more, and through the sharing, I unwrap yet more hope, discover more of His majestic might and infinite goodness and ravishing beauty.

I am awe-struck, and I see what made the shepherds run, see what prompted them to share the wonder they had witnessed.

Is this how I can live on mission here, in the close of a year that’s hinged on a pandemic—see with gratitude-trained eyes so I can hark, hark than run ever deeper into waves of love and grace, behold then tell, again and over again?

Discover hope, then let it overflow.

Find Him, and rejoice for all to hear.

Because this babe cradled in a manger, He is the hope of the world.

You, Jesus, are God-come-down. You are the hope that is all around. You are the promise fulfilled, and You fill my heart. May I see You, and hark this Christmas—hark so I can run to You and tell about You and live from the overflow of the hope that fills my heart? In Your holy and precious name, Lord, I pray. Amen.

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