27 Oct
There have been moments this week when hope has been sparse.  Moments when I’ve wondered what in world I can do or say.  Moments when hope was kinda sorta missing.  
I’m happy to report my hope has been restored and for that I thank the older women who you pin to hate change when really they’re some of the most progressive in the congregation.  Proof that stereotypes cannot be trusted.  The older women who sit in the same pews every Sunday and in the same order are the ones open to a different confession and forgiveness in worship and might even – dare I say? – be on board for a new hymnal down the road.  
My hope is restored when Mabel returns home after tearing across the now empty cornfield after a deer.  [She went crazy!]  My hope is restored when I meet with my first call colleague group and think to myself, “I’m glad I’m here.  And I’m glad I’m not alone.”  My hope is restored when Karen and I go to lunch and she shares with me the promise of reformation.  [Not the Martin Luther kind.]
A place without hope is the time when I drive in tears, call friends frantically to explode with words, and sit in sweatpants and drink wine.  [The last of which can easily and happily be done with hope as well.]  It’s not the best place.  I’m glad to have found hope again.  [Not that it was ever gone; I simply failed to see it.]

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