Hope is My Anchor
Strength for your soul amid life's storms March 2005
__________________________________________________________________
Rii-iii-iip. My seven-year-old son Zach slowly tore the comment card from the
bulletin, one painstaking perforation at a time. I didn’t know he was listening to the
Pastor, I thought he was just passing time until Children’s Church. But he had heard—
and understood—all too clearly. "Mom, will you help me write a prayer request? I don’
t want them to forget my dad."
The words raced my mind back to my own childhood, when it was so utterly important
to me that people not forget my dad after he died; I was only a year older than Zach. I
used to study Dad’s picture so I wouldn’t forget what he looked like. My dad often sat
with his thumb and fingers curled against his chin, his index finger extending up to the
outside corner of his eye, which pulled his eye taught. I practiced that position until it
felt natural, normal to me. Somehow then I felt a part of my dad was still with me; I
wouldn’t forget.
In college I wrote a paper about my dad. I wrote to everyone who knew him well and
asked them to tell me about him. I compiled their writings into my paper, along with
some of Dad’s writings, and my own. The paper was like a sigh of relief for me, a
finally realizing I wouldn’t forget, and yet knowing it was ok to let go.
The process of adjusting to great loss can take long, painful years. It shaped my
childhood and young adulthood—and I know it shapes our children’s. And yet—we
are not out of God’s hands. The God who allowed Dave’s Lyme disease, allows our
children to have a father with Lyme, to hold someone in highest esteem who has to
suffer such pain—allows that pain to also mold and change them.
This winter has been long and dark for me. The old questions have resurfaced—is this
the way life is going to be? Is it time to let go of former dreams? Perhaps a more
practical person would have done that already! But I am not known for my practicality,
and Dave has never felt released from God’s calling to be a pastor. I would make new
dreams and yet, I don’t know what to expect, what can be counted on. I am searching
for my footing—and I know the only firm footing is in Christ, that in the end only He
can be counted on.
Do we hold onto hope? And what is our hope rooted in? This winter I’ve felt that if
hope is my anchor, as Hebrews 6:19 says, then surely I’ve pulled it up, let life toss me
about, and dropped that weighty anchor on my foot! The deferred hope, the kind that
makes the heart sick—the hope that disappoints. It is no anchor.
The hope that is our anchor holds our soul firm and secure—even while emotions ride
the stormy waves. It is moored to God Himself—it reaches to the inner sanctuary, to
the only place where we can make sense of life (Ps. 73:16-17). Even when we are that
brute beast, we are still firm in His grasp.
Sometimes the hope of heaven seems a far-away dream. We have a foretaste, a
glimpse in a dim mirror, a tiny deposit through God’s Holy Spirit, guaranteeing what is
to come later in abundance—God’s glorious presence. Yet we imagine only ease,
comfort, lack of problems or pain—because that is all we can get our minds around.
We can’t comprehend the glory of God or the joy of being eternally in His presence—
but when we stop striving to, we are hopeless indeed.
This winter Zach told me he knows from Paul in the Bible that God is a bright light.
So when he sees the sun, he remembers God is with him. And at night the moon
reminds him—and if the moon isn’t out, he turns on his flashlight, and then he
remembers God is with him. "That’s what children need to know most of all." I think it’
s what all of us need to know most of all.
Like little children, we need to remind each other: Don’t forget our Father.
You probably love someone the world should never forget. But it’s also likely you
know someone who may be feeling forgotten. A neighbor, someone who is lonely, a
shut-in—someone who can’t or hasn’t filled out a prayer request card—and yet needs
to know they are not forgotten. Take over a meal or a card or some cookies, sit with
them an hour, pray for and with them, or simply listen. Your words—and your
actions—may be a light in a dark day, and remind them God is with them.
Maybe you are that person feeling forgotten. But in Christ, we are never forgotten.
God never leaves us, nor forsakes us. Remember the hope that anchors us to Him.
In Christ,
Merry Marinello
Strength for your soul amid life's storms March 2005
__________________________________________________________________
Rii-iii-iip. My seven-year-old son Zach slowly tore the comment card from the
bulletin, one painstaking perforation at a time. I didn’t know he was listening to the
Pastor, I thought he was just passing time until Children’s Church. But he had heard—
and understood—all too clearly. "Mom, will you help me write a prayer request? I don’
t want them to forget my dad."
The words raced my mind back to my own childhood, when it was so utterly important
to me that people not forget my dad after he died; I was only a year older than Zach. I
used to study Dad’s picture so I wouldn’t forget what he looked like. My dad often sat
with his thumb and fingers curled against his chin, his index finger extending up to the
outside corner of his eye, which pulled his eye taught. I practiced that position until it
felt natural, normal to me. Somehow then I felt a part of my dad was still with me; I
wouldn’t forget.
In college I wrote a paper about my dad. I wrote to everyone who knew him well and
asked them to tell me about him. I compiled their writings into my paper, along with
some of Dad’s writings, and my own. The paper was like a sigh of relief for me, a
finally realizing I wouldn’t forget, and yet knowing it was ok to let go.
The process of adjusting to great loss can take long, painful years. It shaped my
childhood and young adulthood—and I know it shapes our children’s. And yet—we
are not out of God’s hands. The God who allowed Dave’s Lyme disease, allows our
children to have a father with Lyme, to hold someone in highest esteem who has to
suffer such pain—allows that pain to also mold and change them.
This winter has been long and dark for me. The old questions have resurfaced—is this
the way life is going to be? Is it time to let go of former dreams? Perhaps a more
practical person would have done that already! But I am not known for my practicality,
and Dave has never felt released from God’s calling to be a pastor. I would make new
dreams and yet, I don’t know what to expect, what can be counted on. I am searching
for my footing—and I know the only firm footing is in Christ, that in the end only He
can be counted on.
Do we hold onto hope? And what is our hope rooted in? This winter I’ve felt that if
hope is my anchor, as Hebrews 6:19 says, then surely I’ve pulled it up, let life toss me
about, and dropped that weighty anchor on my foot! The deferred hope, the kind that
makes the heart sick—the hope that disappoints. It is no anchor.
The hope that is our anchor holds our soul firm and secure—even while emotions ride
the stormy waves. It is moored to God Himself—it reaches to the inner sanctuary, to
the only place where we can make sense of life (Ps. 73:16-17). Even when we are that
brute beast, we are still firm in His grasp.
Sometimes the hope of heaven seems a far-away dream. We have a foretaste, a
glimpse in a dim mirror, a tiny deposit through God’s Holy Spirit, guaranteeing what is
to come later in abundance—God’s glorious presence. Yet we imagine only ease,
comfort, lack of problems or pain—because that is all we can get our minds around.
We can’t comprehend the glory of God or the joy of being eternally in His presence—
but when we stop striving to, we are hopeless indeed.
This winter Zach told me he knows from Paul in the Bible that God is a bright light.
So when he sees the sun, he remembers God is with him. And at night the moon
reminds him—and if the moon isn’t out, he turns on his flashlight, and then he
remembers God is with him. "That’s what children need to know most of all." I think it’
s what all of us need to know most of all.
Like little children, we need to remind each other: Don’t forget our Father.
You probably love someone the world should never forget. But it’s also likely you
know someone who may be feeling forgotten. A neighbor, someone who is lonely, a
shut-in—someone who can’t or hasn’t filled out a prayer request card—and yet needs
to know they are not forgotten. Take over a meal or a card or some cookies, sit with
them an hour, pray for and with them, or simply listen. Your words—and your
actions—may be a light in a dark day, and remind them God is with them.
Maybe you are that person feeling forgotten. But in Christ, we are never forgotten.
God never leaves us, nor forsakes us. Remember the hope that anchors us to Him.
In Christ,
Merry Marinello
| Don't Forget |
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© 2004 Dave and Merry Marinello, all rights reserved.
Welcome! Thanks for visiting our little "harbor" amid life's storms. We hope you
will find rest and encouragement in your struggles, big or small. Here you can:
will find rest and encouragement in your struggles, big or small. Here you can:
"Don't Forget" March 2005 Newsletter
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Hope is My Anchor
Strength for your soul amid life's storms
Strength for your soul amid life's storms
"When my heart was grieved and my spirit embittered
I was senseless and ignorant; I was a brute beast before you.
Yet I am always with you; you hold me by my right hand.
You guide me with your counsel, and afterward you will take me into glory.
Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire besides you.
My flesh and my heart may fail,
but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever."
Psalm 73:21-26
I was senseless and ignorant; I was a brute beast before you.
Yet I am always with you; you hold me by my right hand.
You guide me with your counsel, and afterward you will take me into glory.
Whom have I in heaven but you? And earth has nothing I desire besides you.
My flesh and my heart may fail,
but God is the strength of my heart and my portion forever."
Psalm 73:21-26