Hope makes itself every day
Springs up from the tiniest places
No one gives it to us
We just notice it
Quiet in the small moment–
Naomi Shihab Nye
Most winters my husband and I travel south to capture some sunshine and warmth. We go to rejuvenate, to restore faith that the darkness of our long Wisconsin winter will eventually shift to light. We need a bit of hope to keep us going.
Recent years have brought us to southern Florida. We have our favorite things to do: walking the beach, riding bikes, enjoying fresh seafood. Since much of the area we visit was devastated by Hurricane Ian only two years ago, we did not know what to expect during our visit this year. We could only imagine the despair that home and business owners had felt when they left the island or returned.
It didn’t take long before we got a glimpse. Plants and trees were uprooted, condos and businesses were evacuated and irreparable; the destruction and pillage was profound.
We saw the loss on the face of the bike rental worker who shared his story: “I got as far away as I could,” he said painfully. “I drove to the other side of the state, and when I returned, I had lost everything.”
He showed me the high-water mark with his arm outstretched above his head: “The water rose this high.” He continued, “Papers were strewn everywhere, furniture tossed all around. I recovered a few pieces of clothing, but that was it.” He shook his head in disbelief as he processed.
Whether the land or the people told the stories, the havoc of the hurricane had prevented flourishing on the island to pause for a prolonged season—years. It was difficult to absorb.
To make the trip complete, we wanted to return to one of our favorite places. One evening we ventured out on a somber drive. Initially, we came upon the causeway where two years ago we had sat on the sand by the ocean, hidden among the palms, and enjoyed a sunset together. Now, there was just a beach and no vegetation–not a single palm tree. On the opposite side, where we had grabbed a snack at the tiny gas station, there now stood only the shell of an A-frame. Only a sparse bit of land remained. The empty site required us to turn the car around and stop.
We paused to honor the loss and the power and unpredictability of God and nature.
Like many of the storms in our lives that happen in a moment, we are never the quite the same. Adversity and harm can take years to recover. The ability for despair to replace hope hangs in the balance, and sometimes hope is never recovered.
As we continued along, the ruin was less pronounced. In some areas, it seemed as if the storm had barely touched. Within minutes we turned the corner, heard music, and saw a packed parking lot. We knew our special spot had survived.
Two Adirondack chairs opened up, and we sat down and scanned the horizon. Together, we wondered, “What makes this place such a draw?” I observed some orange and pink hues in the darkening sky. I noticed seemingly memorable connections, and I took a guess:
“I think it is about hope.”
Two lifelong friends held each other close. They scuffled a few feet out on the beach with their weathered smiles and short white pixies and turned for the camera as if they had huddled together like this fifty years ago. I wondered if secrets, dreams, and devastations were held within their bond.
Watching another family caused me to be curious. Grandma was holding little hands. One hand with a babe barely walking; another with a newborn. Her sons and their wives stood nearby and the lone daughter took photos. Where was the patriarch? My mind made up tales as I observed.
Over to the far left, shouts of joy and exuberant clapping were followed by hugs, high fives, and triumphant congratulations. Ah, yes! The young woman was wearing a white dress and the young man looked relieved. She said, “Yes!” An engagement.
All these were among the many who had gathered for a glimmer of hope at the end of another day.
A James Taylor imitator set up near the bar and began to strum a familiar chorus over the gently lapping waves. He sang “America the Beautiful,” grounding us to the history of our people, our land, and our hope.
I sang along softly and watched the sunset slip behind the clouds as we witnessed another day, a good enough day, coming to an end. The hope for tomorrow was right around the corner.
Maryhelen Martens has been gathering and connecting with others since she was a young girl growing up in rural Wisconsin. She is a lover of whimsy and play, beauty and depth, all of which she experiences in her relationships. While her emotions and voice were shut down for decades, she is finding them again and using them in healing groups, story coaching, and writing. She’s always been drawn to water and sunsets and more recently to the desert and sunrises. She’s curious about that. Mother to three authentic adults, Maryhelen lives with her steadfast husband Keith on the shore of Lake Michigan.
I love a story that uses real situations to clarify experiences.
Thank you for this beautiful story.