An age-old question


Sitting in a dust heap, his wellspring of tears having long since dried up, words bubbled effortlessly out of the depths of his aching heart and out the door of his dry, cracked lips. 

"Where then is my hope?!"

If there ever was a man to be justified in shouting this query to soul while shaking his fists to the the heavens, Job was that man. 

Having suffered the death of his children, the plundering of his unheralded wealth, and the decimation of his respected image, the ancient near Eastern figure we know today as Job suffered a recession if there ever was one - the original Great Depression seized his soul overnight without warning.

Where is my hope?
Where is my hope?
Where is my hope?
Where is my hope?

No doubt, even if we've never said or written such questions, they lurk in the shadows and caverns of our mysterious and deceitful hearts threatening to enlist armies of anxiety who will march against us. Inquiries into the nature of our hope have the potential to ship us out onto the turbulent, endless seas of self-reflection. Some respond by taking a pilgrimage, perhaps even as exotic as one along the Camino de Santiago. Others may take meditation retreats. Some seek therapists, counselors and psychologists. Others seek pleasure through the fruits of the earth. Some try to ignore it and try to earn their own rewards through building a prestigious CV. Others mine history and the stars for meaningful, lasting answers.

You may be all of these people or none, but you reading this because you hope.

And the good news is there's a kind of hope that can truly endure and is worth investing in.


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