hope of things unseen

I first saw the painting The Disciples Peter and John Running to the Sepulchre on the Morning of the Resurrection in the Musée d'Orsay in Paris many years ago. The painting has a very modern feel to it, but in fact it was painted in 1898 by the Swiss landscape artist Eugène Burnand. The Musée d'Orsay has an overwhelming number of impressionist pieces, housed in an old train station. I drifted through the light-filled space, leisurely drinking in my fill of Renoir, Degas, Monet, and Van Gogh, all favorites of mine, glorying in the joy of so much wonderful art that I'd seen up to this point only in books. Then I came to this unfamiliar painting and it stopped me cold. I stood for several minutes and just stared.

You know the story. After the dark days before, the sun is rising and John and Peter rush to the tomb. They have heard Mary's report of the stone being rolled away and, except for the linen clothes, only emptiness waiting within. It's easy to tell who is who: John the mystic, ethereal in his white robe, has his hands clasped as in supplication as he runs ahead. Peter, the craggy fisherman, looks as if he's been on a three day drunk. He has, of course, but it's a binge of bitterness, self-castigation, and grief rather than alcohol. What they have in common is the hope and shock that permeates every part of their being, that propels them in spite of their exhaustion and fear to race each other, that wonders what they will find there . . . . .

Hope is often indistinguishably mingled with fear; when life is satisfactory, there are only superficial things to hope for: a new car, a sunny day, a raise, pot roast for supper. It's when things are the darkest that hope is most needed; that's all that's left. Is it even possible to live without hope?

When Elizabeth was ten, we went to a regularly scheduled psychiatrist appointment. For some reason, she would not cooperate that day and hid under a chair. Dr. B tried to coax her out, but nothing worked. Finally she stood up and said, "There are children for whom there is no hope and I think you have one." Then she left the room, leaving Elizabeth and me staring at each other, her from under the chair, me standing in the middle of the room. I held it together until later of course, because that is what you do when you have a child with severe anxiety. No hope? I changed psychiatrists, but the damage had been done. No hope? What do you do with that?

I have a number of friends with mentally ill children and one day I ran into one at the mall. "Linda," she said, "I keep having this dream of holding D. and walking into the ocean and not stopping." Tears filled both our eyes. I could only nod because I know that dream all too well. It's the dream you have when you have no hope. No hope? That closes all paths but one.

Elizabeth has been hospitalized for three months now. She is fragile and falls apart easily. SHE has hope; she talks regularly about what we will do when she comes home. "You can't come home until you can do it safely," I remind her. "I know," she says. "I KNOW I can do it." Twenty minutes later, she falls apart over my leaving or having to take a bath or a perceived slight from another patient, and burly security officers descend once again. I see the signs of fatigue on the part of her doctors and nurses. They look away when I ask questions and their responses are shorter than they were. They spend more time justifying their actions. I have seen this before. It's what happens before someone once again gives up, when they once again stop hoping, once again taking my hope with them.

This weekend, Easter weekend, I visited on the Saturday. The regular docs had the weekend off and a Jewish doctor filled in for them. He's on the faculty at Bowman Gray and hadn't seen her before. While he was making rounds, she had a tantrum and he got to see her in her full glory. I came in shortly after and he asked to see me. "I'm wondering," he said, and proceeded to go down a different path than we've gone down before. "I don't normally work with children, but with violent adults. Still, there are some things in common." He proposed a new drug, part of a class that hasn't been tried, a cheap generic with few side effects which can be added to her existing meds. He called the attending at home and got his approval. "Let's try it," I said. I told him the story of Dr. B. He was shocked. "Oh no," he said. "Of course there is hope."

At the Easter Vigil that night, I sit in the dark and cry. Bishop Curry preaches, a good thing, because when he talks, I can almost believe in this risen lord stuff. When he talks, I can almost have hope. He reminds us of the power of baptism, and I remember that it's Elizabeth's and Claire's baptismal anniversary. "We bind onto ourselves today the strong name of the Trinity," we used to sing over their lamb cake lit with one of their baptismal candles. The lights come on and the roar of the Easter shout fills the room. Darkness is defeated. Of course there is hope. I wipe away my tears and ring bells with the rest.

I wonder what John and Peter felt when they reached the empty tomb. In John 20 we're told they went away to their own home. This empty tomb, this symbol of hope and resurrection to us, must have seemed like just another defeat among so many. I wonder what they were hoping for? They could not have imagined what would happen next. They could not have hoped for the resurrection.

What do I hope for? I hope that Elizabeth, a child of God created in God's image, will fulfill the promise of her baptism. I hope she will be whole and happy and faithful and useful. I hope that this next drug will be the one that works, and if not this one, then the next or the next or the next. I hope for more doctors who look at her and are intrigued rather than defeated. I hope for things I can not yet imagine.

Minister Charles L. Allen says, "When you say a situation or a person is hopeless, you're slamming the door in the face of God." I hope I remember that.

Of course there is hope.