Thoughts on hope and heaven

Ryan and I were talking today after adoration about what it means to have hope in the Lord. He's reading Rome Sweet Rome, by Scott Hahn, while in adoration each week and has been really moved by it, in particular, by Kimberly Hahn's conversion story. He updates me on the book on our rides home, and for the last couple of weeks it really seemed like she wasn't going to convert (of course, we knew what ended up happening, but seriously, after her husband became Catholic she was so opposed to converting that she prayed God would take her life!). Today, he finally read the section where she decided to convert and he couldn't help but think that her struggle was, in many ways, similar to my own.

She suffered terribly during the years after her husband announced he was exploring Catholicism. She was tortured by it and struggled for peace and understanding. Ryan said that she first prayed that her husband wouldn't convert; then she asked that she'd be open to it herself; and, finally, that she'd have peace with her husband's conversion and that they could coexist. None of those prayers were answered for many years and, despite only wanting to do God's will, she felt He was no where to be found.

My prayers have also changed along those line - first, that I could conceive, next, that I could be open to adoption, or to remaining childless, whatever was God's will; and lastly, that I could just have peace with the whole situation. None of those requests have been granted and I, too, have felt that God is hiding from me as I suffer.

She included a passage from Lamentations 3 that Ryan wanted me to read:

He drove into my heart the arrows of his quiver. He made my teeth grind on gravel and made me cower in ashes. My soul is bereft of peace. I have forgotten what happiness is. So I say, “Gone is my glory and my expectation from the Lord.” Remember my affliction and my bitterness, the wormwood and the gall. My soul continually thinks of it and is bowed down within me. But this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: the steadfast love of the Lord never ceases, his mercies never come to an end. They are new every morning. Great is thy faithfulness. The Lord is my portion, says my soul, therefore I will hope in him.

I really love that. From "I have forgotten what happiness is" to "'Gone is my glory and my expectation from the Lord.'" I've been there. And if you read the whole passage from Lamentations, especially the section before this quote, it really describes the tortured pain infertility can cause us to feel.

But this passage got us talking about hope. Ryan tends to think that it means we can hope that God will answer our prayers. And, on another level, even if you understand that your prayers may be answered with a "no", it means you can hope that God will give you peace in this lifetime.

I, on the other hand, believe that while there's nothing wrong with hoping for God to give us what we ask for or, in lieu of that, peace, I think that the "hope" that is so often discussed in the Bible is actually hope for eternal life in heaven.

Every time I read a passage about hope, I am reminded over and over that this is the case. It's actually the central theme of the whole New Testament - not to proclaim the Good News that Jesus is there to ask for things you may want (like babies), but that the Kingdom is at hand, have hope that Christ has conquered death and that we will see God face to face one glorious day.

Yes, those wonderful healing parables can also be related to mean that God can and does actually heal our physical wounds, but what they are really about (in my humble interpretation) is having our sins forgiven, our soul "healed", and ultimately getting into heaven.

I don't think Ryan's wrong. I think we're both right and either scenario could play out in my life. I could be blessed with a pregnancy or adoption in this lifetime, or I may remain childless and my heart will be mended in heaven. I don't pretend to know God's will for us, so I admit that both have a chance of occuring. And while hoping that God answers our prayers is a valid hope, it may or may not happen. Yet, on the other hand, hoping in God and receiving our eternal reward will happen (not being presumptuous about my eternal destination, but just implying that it is there for the taking).

But what this has made me realize is something that I've known for a while now that I've needed to confront - the fact that hoping for eternal life should be enough for me. Receiving my "reward" for all this suffering in heaven is not something I should be rolling my eyes at (which I often do).

Truthfully, I don't like this. It makes me uncomfortable. Hence, why I've been putting it off for so many years.

But when something like this makes us uncomfortable that usually means that we have found an area where our soul needs work. I think the reason it strikes such a cord with me is because it forces me to confront the distinct possibility that I may suffer, as I am now, for the rest of my life. The same pain, which causes me to wonder how I will possibly endure another day, could be around for the long haul. That is, until heaven, when all our pain and suffering is relieved and we can bask in the glory of the beatific vision.

I know in my head that it's something I should be happy with (that's probably the understatement of the year). So why isn't it enough?

I think it's because I'm human. We live on planet earth, in a terribly immoral society and heaven is a far-off, abstract concept to us. While we may be blessed to feel God's presence at times, we still can't really imagine heaven or anything beyond this life. At least I can't. So it's enough that I am struggling to incorporate God into my earthly life; I can't even begin to think about incorporating myself into God's heavenly world.

But I'm going to have to. It needs to be enough for me. And that's not because I pessimistically believe I won't ever be a mother, but because it should be enough for all of us, no matter what our lot in life. I need to rejoice at the idea of getting my reward in heaven, at my pain and heartbreak being erased once I'm there. Maybe this is the last thing I was truly holding onto and needed to surrender.

I'm not sure how I will do this, or if it's even fully possible. But, as with most things with me, recognizing it is a problem is more than half the battle. Maybe I'll never truly accomplish it, but it will at least always be in the back of my mind as something I need to work on, which will hopefully force me to do so.

I said to Ryan today that I know I need to get to the point when, like the saints, I can look suffering in the face and say "Thank you, God, for allowing me to suffer like this. Blessed be your name!" I'm not there right now. I'm more along the lines of, "God, I'm not mad at you. I'm sad, but I trust you." I'm slowly making progress. It could be (and was, not too long ago) a lot worse.