Great Hosannas

Glancing through a recent issue of a scholarly journal this morning, I stumbled over a quote from Fyodor Dostoevsky that encapsulates how beautifully some writers have expressed faith. A former atheist, he wrote this in response to criticism of the affirmations of faith that pepper his final novel, The Brothers Karamazov:

". . . it is not like a child that I believe in Christ and confess Him. My hosanna has come forth
from the crucible of doubt."

How stunningly and simply wonderful. "My hosanna has come forth from the crucible of doubt."

As someone who has never seriously doubted God's existence or goodness, it would be hard for me to claim this quote as representative of my own life but for the wide swath the word "doubt" cuts through all our lives. Doubt isn't directed only toward God's personage or the tenants of faith. Doubt comes in many forms.

Worrying over a future that God surely holds in his hands.

Questioning difficulties that God allows to descend like a pestilence.

Grumbling about things which, although expected, have not happened.

I'm guilty of each of these forms of doubt -- guilty daily. I can't seem to face even a minor challenge without bemoaning my misfortune. And even as I throw a high-class pity party, I'm well aware that millions and millions of people face struggles that I couldn't begin imagining, and the weight of all their doubts must be crushing.

But it is then that faith becomes most precious.

Without trying to elevate the significance of my own problems, I know that I have crawled closest to God when I've felt doubt seeping through my bloodstream as if I were hooked up to an IV. In that sense, my hosanna has come forth from the crucible of doubt. This is something I need to remember as I inch forward in a life that is currently filled with tortoise-like progress, so slow it feels as if I still have twenty-three miles left to go in my marathon yet I've been running for months.

Whether or not my speed -- or lack thereof -- should be cause to doubt, it is cause for doubt. After years breezing through school and college on my way to fulfilling my "potential," I sometimes question, am I not meant to achieve the dreams I've always believed in with a faith so strong it was second only to God? (Humor me for a moment if you will, and pretend that 23 is not the early morning of my future, but somewhere closer to the dusk of my possibilities, because that is what doubt tries to convince me.)

I don't know which dreams will come true and which will fall flat on their face, and struggling with that uncertainty is another slice of doubt.

And I simply have to shrug, continue the pursuit, and bring forth hosannas.

Because my dreams, fulfilled or forgotten, are all as perfectly aligned as the planets, and not a single one can fall out of the orbit God has placed it in.

". . . what dreams may come

When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,

Must give us pause. . . ."

Hamlet 3.1

Hope as a Metaphor

For several weeks, I've been as wrapped up in my new project as a burrito is wrapped in a tortilla. Energy and creativity wise, it has been almost all-consuming, but I'm still madly in love with tangling words into poems, spinning stories into screenplays. I've been writing articles and content and brainstorming for ideas for my project, which is more than just satisfying; it is fulfilling, knowing that I'm working toward a very workable goal, another great dream that God is already blessing.

But just as SEO began shoving poetry from my mind, and just after I'd decided not to attend a writing conference I'd had on my calendar for months, I got another glimmer of hope that my writing career may move forward when I least expect it.

It came in the form of another rejection, from the H.A. No damning with faint praise, no "we wish you the best in your efforts to place your work elsewhere." Simply: "The sheer volume of excellent poetry we received this fall has been overwhelming and we've had to turn away many wonderful pieces. I highly encourage you to submit your work again for the winter issue." Even though they weren't accepting any of my poems, or promising to take any in the future, that e-mail reached out tantalizingly, like the first autumn breezes that crackle through goldening leaves, promising the beautiful days to come.

And that feeling that tickled up my spine is as much poetry as woven words, in my mind: hope, cornflower skies, moonlit jazz, inspiration, broken shells on the beach, paintbrushes, anticipation, laughter, trees ripe with fruit, perseverance, appreciating and embracing every new day's challenge.

I've begun looking at life as an ongoing poem. Every event becomes a metaphor, a volta, a fluttering synecdoche that reminds me even I am greater than the sum of my achievements would currently suggest. I'm trying to live as I want to write, with a controlled abandon that stretches its arms out toward possibilities that looked too faraway -- until I realized that it takes an outstretched arm to bring the dream within reach.

Slow Progress is...Progress. (But Slow.)

I am, once again, waiting.

But in the meantime this time, I have lots to do that actually brings me closer to my goal, instead of lots to do that hopefully leads to goal-fulfillment. For all my interest in the articles I'd been seeking out over the late summer and early fall, my excitement now is for something more tangible, something palpable that is only a matter of time and work away. And the work itself is more straightforward than trying to write a hooky query. These days, it's filling out business forms, and researching markets, and learning all about SEO -- but also writing, of course. There's not so much "luck" involved with this work, but still a whole lot of God in determining how I'll succeed.

I get completely giddy some days because I can't believe the adventurous turn my otherwise monotonous (albeit pleasant) life has taken. My mother likened my new attitude to my delight that summer afternoon when I had a Kool-Aid stand in Pennsylvania. When I was eight.

That's not to say that my mother thinks I'll only make Kool-Aid stand money from my new venture. But it'll be a while before I start making more than Kool-Aid stand money. Once it happens, D. thinks things should go quite well for me, and I hope he's right -- because this job I've created for myself blends so many things I've always been interested in as well as introducing me to brand new fields. It's a much steadier, more reliable plan than freelancing, and it's something he and I can work on together.

Earning money with it will make it much more enjoyable than it already is, though. Here I am, nearly a week past my 23rd birthday, still complaining to A. that I have to dip into my savings account for a Starbucks run. That's how it will have to be for a while longer, as I'm throwing my energy, time, and creativity into a project more interesting than I could have imagined -- a project with a bigger potential payoff than any strictly-writing career turn could ever bring me, short of a bestselling novel or a blockbuster screenplay.

For a while longer, I can afford savings withdrawals for Pumpkin Spice Creams and Peppermint Hot Chocolates. But if the money doesn't start within a few months, I'll have to go back to Kool-Aid.