Hopeful vs. Hopeless
Hope is faith holding out its hand in the dark - George Iles
Have you ever experienced moments when hope feels like something you can almost touch?
For me, when I feel hopeful, it’s like an internal exhale. A quiet cleansing. A sense of peace and stillness that’s hard to put into words. Almost like a gentle hand resting over my heart reminding me:
You’re on the right path. Keep going. Even if it’s one small, uncertain step at a time.
March has felt like that for me - full of hope, full of growth, full of new opportunities continuing to unfold. Some exciting, some uncertain, and some uncomfortable.
In those moments, I find myself returning to hope, anchoring into it. Choosing to trust and choosing to believe.
I remember one time from years ago like it was yesterday.
It was a cold winter day in the height of COVID. I was out walking a dog, standing at the top of a hill, when a wave of emotion came over me so strongly it stopped me in my tracks.
In the midst of so much uncertainty and lack of direction… something opened.
I felt my heart expand.
I felt possibility.
I felt God’s presence so clearly.
In that moment, I just knew my work in this world is to help, in whatever way I’m called.
The path wasn’t clear yet, but the knowing was.
Within weeks, I was invited into a coaching experience that eventually led me to pursue my certification. And from that day forward, something shifted. My heart opened in a new way. I began to see through a clearer lens - one of love, trust, and deeper connection to both myself and others.
I’ve held onto the idea of writing about hope for a long time. And, with the beginning of Holy Week, it felt like the right moment to share what’s been alive in my heart.
This past week, I’ve noticed hope everywhere.
In a simple, unexpected moment - asking for a sign that I was on the right path and then watching a bluebird appear, flying right in front of me and following me to my car.
In conversations and client sessions where the quiet undercurrent was hope, even when things felt heavy.
In the early signs of spring - daffodils, tulips, new buds pushing through the earth. Soft yellows and purples remind me that life is always quietly renewing itself.
In prayer, as I drove to meet my mom at the hospital while my dad was in surgery - holding onto faith, trusting in God’s plan, and feeling supported in the waiting.
I can’t imagine a life without hope.
Hope doesn’t always mean everything is okay.
Sometimes it simply means the heart is still open.
When I feel hopeful, my heart feels open - able to hold possibility, even without certainty.
When I feel hopeless, it’s not that hope is gone rather it’s that my heart feels closed off from it.
And maybe that’s the invitation.
To gently return.
To surrender.
To remember.
It takes courage to have hope and it takes heart to hold onto it.
Hope, for me, is an anchor for my soul. It is nourishment for my mind and fuel for my body. When I root myself in it, I feel a quiet sense of steadiness - a trust in what’s unfolding, even when I don’t fully understand it.
“For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.”
As we close out another month together and gently step into a new month, my hope for you is this:
That you feel a sense of belonging.
That you notice where life is gently opening for you.
That you trust, even in the unknown, that you are being guided, supported, and deeply loved.
Maybe this week, you gather hope the way you would gather a bouquet of flowers - noticing the small, beautiful moments, the seen and unseen.
Let them fill your heart.
Be the light.
Be a peacemaker.
Share your love.
And if you know someone who could use a little extra hope, reach out. Remind them they’re not alone.
Until next time my friend. Peace, hope, and joy be with you always.
With love - angie
If this reflection stirred something in you, I would love to hear from you. And if someone you know might need a little encouragement this week, feel free to share it with them.
