My father passed away a month ago. I had the privilege of being with him and our family for several days in September. Friends brought meals, neighbors called and checked in, and pastors from my family’s local church stopped by to see him. I was present for two of those visits. Both were meaningful for different reasons. One sang praise songs and played his guitar, proclaiming the anthems of our faith, gently reminding us of the hope of Heaven.
Another pastor sat by my father’s bed and listened while Dad shared stories and pictures of his big adventures. This particular pastor has a neurological condition similar to my father’s, and I think Dad wanted to offer encouragement. In his own struggles, as he neared the finish line of his life in this broken world, I believe he wanted to reach back and offer a bit of hope. Before the pastor left, he prayed and I heard him say, “Lord, this day is special because You made it.”
That isn’t a new teaching. Those words from Psalm 118 are shared early and shared often in the faith community. But Pastor put a modern twist on a bedrock principle, and it has stayed with me ever since. Providing hope on difficult days. I keep marveling at how Dad offered hope and encouragement, then Pastor turned around and offered it to each of us.
I often whisper those words early in the morning before I get out of bed, reminding myself that I’m still alive. God has called me to be a wife, a mom, a writer, a human in this particular time and place. This day is a gift. It’s special. Because God made it.
These words have helped me not only as I grieve my father’s passing, but also as I grieve the unmet expectations of 2020. Our children desperately want to go back to school full-time. They have not stepped inside their schools or classrooms since March. I’ve advocated for them as best as I can, yet those in positions of power continue to make decisions and implement policies that I don’t agree with. While I want to believe that this year will not define our children, sometimes doubt creeps in and I wonder what long-term effects we will see from this prolonged season of isolation. I’m weary. I’m eager for change. More than anything, I’m craving a glimmer of hope.
So I’ve returned to the one strategy I know and trust to be far more effective than any other: prayer. God is sovereign. He’s still on the throne. He’s not limited by questionable public policy, a replicating virus, or an election. He hears our prayers. His Word tells us over and over to trust Him and to not be afraid.
This morning as I walked through our neighborhood and made myself appreciate the beauty of a glorious fall day, I heard a sound I hadn’t in quite awhile. The unmistakable rumble of a school bus.
The bus rolled around the corner and came toward me. It was my son’s driver, practicing her usual route. I stopped and waved at her like a starving woman on a deserted island might hail a search-and-rescue helicopter. She grinned and waved right back. A little glimpse of hope and a future that will eventually involve the routines we associate with a ‘normal’ life. I walked home smiling, thinking of one of my dad’s grandest adventures, which involved converting a school bus into a house and driving from Pennsylvania to Alaska with my mom and my sister when she was an infant. {That’s a long story for another day}.
I also smiled because today is a gift and it’s special. Because God made it.
Because hope showed up and it looked like a school bus.
