Growing up hope was a whispy dandelion. Hold its tender stem, blow, and watch all the florets move with the breeze, small against the bright sun and blue sky. One gentle puff and I’d send my wish off into the wind.
Most of my wishes felt fragile against the wild landscape. I assumed they’d melt in the noonday heat. But they were all I had – handfuls of hope to throw to the wind.
Then I read Isaiah and discovered that hope has roots. The Jews lost everything when Jerusalem fell. They even lost their own freedom when they were dragged into exile. For generations they languished in loss – their city destroyed, their life crushed. Lamentations displays their grief work – a book that lives between Isaiah 39 and 40 and is part of this root system. Out of this cracked ground hope broke through.