Stephanie Rische

Blogger and Writer: Capturing Stories of God's Grace

Prisoners of Hope

This pandemic has taken so many prisoners, and my heart is heavy for everyone who finds themselves languishing behind bars right now.

The elderly person who can’t have visitors.
The single parent who is never off the clock.
The person battling anxiety.
The person with a compromised immune system.
The person stuck at home in an abusive relationship.
The person who lives alone and feels the ache of loneliness.

Perhaps this virus isn’t responsible for our chains, but it certainly has exposed them. The truth is, we are all prisoners of something—we don’t have much choice about that. But we do have some say in what we will be enslaved to.

I came across this verse recently, and it struck me in a new way in this season of fear and quarantine:

Return to your fortress, you prisoners of hope;
    even now I announce that I will restore twice as much to you.

Zechariah 9:12

Prisoners of hope. What would it look like, I wonder, to be a prisoner of hope rather than a prisoner of fear?

I want to be chained to hope.
I want to shackle myself to it and not let go.
I want it to follow me wherever I go.

The fact that hope takes prisoners implies a battle. There’s nothing passive about it. It requires courage. It’s a fight.

Faith, as I imagine it, is tensile, and cool, and has no need of words. Hope, I know, is a fighter and a screamer.

Mary Oliver

Hope means choosing love, over and over again . . . and asking for forgiveness when we fail.
It means doing the next right thing.
It means getting up again.
It means believing there will be manna enough for today.
It means laying down our weapons, and sometimes our screens.
It means writing a note, making a phone call, baking a batch of cookies, playing another round of Scrabble.
It means listening for the birds and watching for the green daffodil shoots peeking out of the ground.

It means we keep living, one moment at a time. The battle has already been won.

Hope and despair stand always side by side, each determined to outlast the other. If we choose hope, we must join the standoff, with hearts and hands wide open, fighting the urge to fade into despair.

Catherine McNiel

Are You a Catastrophizer?

messy ballOkay, time for a show of hands. When you start a sentence with “What if . . .” how many of you are picturing something wonderful happening? And how many of you are envisioning the bottom dropping out in a thousand different (but equally catastrophic) ways?

If you are in the first category, you are my hero. And also: we need to be friends. If you are in the second category, you are not alone. Here’s the truth: My “what ifs” are always worst-case scenarios.

What if Daniel isn’t home from his bike ride yet because he was swept up by a funnel cloud and then attacked by a bunch of thugs?

What if the pain in my side is appendicitis or, more likely, some unpronounceable kind of cancer?

What if gluten/GMOs/social-media-induced narcissism/the two-party political system will be the demise of us all?

What if I run out of time or money or energy or friends or grace?

What if I’m missing out on what God is calling me to do?

Yep, my worry gene is on constant overdrive.

But lately I’ve been wondering . . . what if my imaginings were best-case scenarios?

What if, instead of catastrophizing, I serendipitized instead?

What if my “what-ifs” were about all the amazing, incredible, wonderful, serendipitous things that God might just have in store?

I adore this poem by Mary Oliver:

I Worried

I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?

Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?

Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless.

Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?

Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.

I can relate to Oliver’s worries about things like which direction the rivers will flow and if the earth will turn the right way—things we humans have no business controlling, not to mention any power over. And I love her remedy, which at first seems like a bit of a non sequitur: go out into the morning and sing.

***

When I started riding my bike with Daniel, he shared this rule of cycling with me: Don’t look at what you’re trying to avoid; look at where you want to go. This sounded terrifying at first, because it means you have to loosen your perceived control over this thing you want to protect yourself from. But in reality, this letting go is freedom.

When you take your eyes off your object of worry, it loses its power over you. As counterintuitive as it sounds, you’re much more likely to crash into something when your eyes are fixed on it.

So just for today, in the face of worry, I want to sing. Every time a worry comes crashing into my brain and my heart, I want to fight back . . . not with striving or many words, but with a song.

Satisfy us each morning with your unfailing love, so we may sing for joy to the end of our lives.
Psalm 90:14

***

Are you a worrier? What do you tend to catastrophize about? What helps you combat worry?

The Summer Day

Last weekend my husband and I escaped to a charming bed and breakfast along the Mississippi River to celebrate our anniversary. The town itself isn’t much to speak of—it has seen better economies, better days, better centuries even. But Ed and Sandy, the owners of the B&B, have created a little sanctuary right there in the heart of the town—a place of respite amid the busyness of life.

 

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After a breakfast of pancakes loaded with plump blueberries, hot coffee with real cream, and fresh sweet strawberries, Daniel and I sat on the huge wrap-around front porch, serenaded by the songbirds and gurgling fountains that grace the property. Butterflies flitted from flower to flower, apparently as enticed by the aroma of the purple phlox as we were.

 

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Then Daniel pulled out his guitar started playing right there on the front porch, and as the morning sun filtered through the trees onto my neck, I wished I could bottle the moment and keep it all year. Summer in a jar.

 

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At one point Daniel looked over at me and noticed that my book was uncharacteristically closed on my lap. I was just sitting there, silent, taking it all in.

 

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, no doubt concerned I’d slipped into a food coma after all those pancakes.

 

I couldn’t quite put it into words. But Mary Oliver captures the moment in her poem “The Summer Day.”

 

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean—
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
—Mary Oliver

 

Sometimes prayer is about structure and discipline and articulate words. But sometimes it’s simply learning “how to be idle and blessed.” Sometimes prayer is sitting on the front porch soaking in this wild and wonderful world God has made.

 

Sometimes prayer is just paying attention.

 

So as summer slips into September and kids don backpacks and the days start taking shortcuts toward dusk, I want to take time to seize these final summer days. I don’t want life to slip by as I rush through my busy to-do list.

 

This summer day, this gift from God—what will I do with it? What will I do with this one wild and precious life?

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