Hope

Yesterday we heard a comment that we hear quite often when we tell people about the work we do here at WillowBridge: "I'm so glad you do what you do...but I could never do it." It's surprised us, actually, how often we do hear that. We enjoy our job and are thankful God called us here for this season to do this work. 

But it is true that it's the kind of work that isn't for everyone, and we do understand that. Some wouldn't enjoy working all day every day with their spouse. Some wouldn't be able to handle living and working in the same space, because it's true that sometimes it blurs the lines between work and personal time. Some wouldn't care for the amount of work to be done each day, and we get that. 

I share with you quite often some of our favorite parts of our job. We love community nights when we get to do fun things together with the tenants. We crack up at their witty sayings. We love celebrating with them when they achieve a success, like earning a driving permit. We enjoy all the baby snuggles. And of course, that's just a sampling of the good things.

There are definitely hard moments, too. Any relationship-oriented job will have its hard parts. Personalities don't always mix. People have bad days. (And sometimes a series of bad days, right?) Schedules are busy and patience wears thin. It happens on all sides. 

Those are the rough days. 

We definitely have days when we go to bed at night wondering if we've done anything right that day. We definitely have days when we think of what we should have said two hours after what we actually said. We definitely have days when we know a hard conversation is coming, and no matter how many hours we spend praying about it, we still feel unprepared.

I had a day like that last week. I didn't actually have to say anything in the hard conversation. I simply had to sit in the room as a presence. I just had to take notes. I just had to listen and pray. And I had to be the one who was there after everything was said to process the next parts. 

It's a challenging part of the job for me, because my natural inclination is to be a peacemaker and peace keeper. I don't like for people to be upset with each other. I don't like unresolved conflict. But sometimes those things take place and trying to speed along a resolution doesn't work. You can only take each moment as it comes.

I went to the meeting, sat on the floor in the corner, and tried to make myself as invisible as possible, or at least as invisible as my nails clacking on the keyboard would allow. 

My bracelet kept rubbing against my wrist as I typed, so eventually I took it off and put it beside me, tossed up against my keys on the floor. 

I typed.

I listened.

I prayed.

And when it was over, I sat and waited. Waited to see what would come next. Sometimes you can only sit and be. Words are intrusive. So I sat quietly. 

At one point I scooted across the floor to be closer and more present, though still just as quiet. As I waited, I glanced over at my discarded laptop, keys fanned across the floor, and the bracelet caught my eye. The word hope was upside down in the way it landed as it slid from my wrist to the floor.

It struck me that the little scene before me was profound. Sometimes hope feels like it is upside down on the floor. It did to me in that moment. But it also struck me that even though it's upside down on the floor, hope is still there. It hasn't gone away. It may not look pretty, but it's there.

Before I cleaned up the room and left for the night, I snapped a quick picture, because I didn't want to forget the lesson I learned in the hard that night.

Hope is always there - even if it's upside down.