A Stubborn, Defiant Hope

Some fragmented thoughts on the aftermath of the election, anticipatory grief, planting garlic, a sacrament, and a child's smile

Wednesday, November 6
Grand Rapids, Mich.

Yesterday afternoon, I wrote these words and posted them on Instagram.

What I wish for you:
Loving courage
A glimpse of beauty
A bowlful of comfort
A shoulder lent by a friend
A hand extended to a neighbor
Hope embodied and shared

Of course I didn’t know then—couldn’t know then—what we know now: My preferred candidate didn’t win the presidential election. As with so many others, though not, obviously, the majority of those who voted, I’m sad and pissed off and frustrated and disappointed, and feel free to add any expletives you want to that mix, because I’m pretty sure I’ve used them all in the past few hours.

Still, I stand by the words I wrote before the votes were counted—and perhaps even more defiantly than yesterday.

As I wrote to you last week, I’m afraid of what will happen in the coming weeks, months, and years. I’m also feeling some anticipatory grief. What a peculiar kind of sorrow. It hits before the exact contours of loss take full shape, but you can already feel the hostile wind and see those angry storm clouds gathering on the horizon.

Before dawn today, I spent too much time on my phone, refreshing and refreshing and refreshing— an especially weird word given that there was nothing at all refreshing about those headlines. Was I foolishly imagining that, with one more click, something would change? Did I think that more details would make it make sense?

A better thing to do was to go out into the yard, take some deep breaths of fresh autumn air, and plant the garlic. My seed garlic arrived last week, and it awaited my attention. I pulled weeds, cleared some fallen leaves, and cut back the dead goldenrod. Then I added some compost to the garden beds and made some rows. Then I broke the heads of garlic apart and tucked each clove into the waiting soil.

I needed the little homily the garlic preached to me: That, even in the cold of winter, something will grow. That, though it might seem as if decay and death is winning this day, goodness is still promised. That, with some effort, patience, and care, new life will come.

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On Sunday, I’ll be baptizing a beloved child for the first time. Months ago, my dear friends Werner and April asked if I might perform the sacrament for their son, Auggie—a tremendous honor. One part of the baptismal liturgy goes like this: “The God we worship is a God who makes and keeps promises... God gives us new life, guards us from evil, and nurtures us in love.”

I’ve been reading and re-reading those words in preparation, and as I’ve turned them over once again in my heart this morning, I longed for some otherworldly force field to unfurl itself over us, covering us in its protective magic. If only it worked that way! So maybe the words are as much a summons as they are a pledge: Yes, God is the source of life, but we’re also invited to guard one another from evil, and we’re also asked to nurture one another in love.

I am not optimistic and never have been. I am, however, determined to be hopeful, not just for my sake and absolutely not by myself but for and with the world—and especially for those who come after us, like Auggie. By “not optimistic but hopeful,” I mean that I don’t believe things will just work out on their own. With God’s help and our faithful collaboration, we can do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly. This will be, I am convinced, the only fruitful way.

Look at this munchkin! I desperately want the world to be kind for him and to him

Auggie turned one today. His blissfully unaware smile reminds me of the importance of holding onto hope wherever we can—and of remembering that joy is still to be found, even amidst the grief. So, in closing, let me repeat myself.

What I wish for you:
Loving courage
A glimpse of beauty
A bowlful of comfort
A shoulder lent by a friend
A hand extended to a neighbor
Hope embodied and shared

Tell me how you’re feeling. We can hold it all together.

In deep sorrow and stubborn hope,
Jeff