Hope, for me, is not just the overwhelming feeling of being alive in a living, breathing world of light, and color, and smell, and sound.
Sometimes I’ll listen to Falling Up and feel it. It comes to me like the eye of a hurricane, or the sound of submersion in water. I listen to their stories of the shimmerings and of the growing things and I disappear into their world, wild creativity infecting my brain.
Sometimes I’ll play music with my friends and feel it. I’ll play the same chords over, and over, and over again, and the violin screams over my six-string, and something comes alive inside my chest, and I wish it would come out of me, but it never does, so I keep playing.
Sometimes I’ll read and feel it. With their words, they reveal the glittering shards of a reality more real than the one in which humans currently reside. I think, and I create.
Sometimes I’ll go to museums and feel it. I am surrounded by centuries, even eons of creativity, and it whirls about like a tiny, unseen force which seeps into my being and overwhelms me with wonder.
Each time, hope feels different, but each time, I feel it for the same reason. I feel it because it gives me a new glimpse into the heart of God, and a new wrinkle on his eternal brow to trace. Sometimes I am so overcome by awe that I fall to my knees in agony, aching for the unseen. It moves through the hallways of my heart, calling out every creative fiber which has been bestowed upon me, uniting them into a shining, golden tether to Heaven itself.
These things are incomplete, just as the Bible is incomplete, just as scholarly interpretation is incomplete, but wholly unlike the completeness of Jesus.
Oh, how I wish I could have touched him.
With their sounds, tastes, sights, touches, and smells, I encounter a different part of God himself.
With mine, I intend to do the same.