Holding Onto Hope When All Feels Lost

Many times, after I’ve experienced disappointment or heartache, I focus on what was lost instead of what I still have.

As I sit in my grandfather’s nursing home and fight back tears, I can’t help but ruminate on how we got here. The last time I was home, just two months ago, I was dancing with my grandfather—aka “Opa”—at a family party. I still can feel his soft, warm hand as he grabbed mine and twirled me from his wheelchair proclaiming, “I love to dance.”

Since that last visit, Opa contracted pneumonia, which eventually developed into lung disease. Now, I stare at his emaciated face as he breathes heavily while he sleeps. I occasionally speak to the never-ending parade of nurses and aides, many of whom weren’t even assigned to care for him that day. They chose to be there, to make sure he’s okay.

As they ask how he is, I notice the genuine care and concern reflected in all of their eyes. They express their relief that he’s back from the hospital, sharing how beloved he is among their community. One aide, about my age, told me with misty eyes, “Your Opa is the grandfather I’ve never had.” Another playfully winked at Opa as he asked, “How’s the ladies’ man of wing two holding up?” Other residents also stop by, asking the same.

Although it pains me seeing him in his current condition, the love that surrounds him restores the cracks within my fragile heart. There’s always beauty and hope around us, if we choose to look for it.

With this level of adoration, one might assume my grandfather has lived there for decades; however, he’s only been there for a little over a year. Prior to that, he and my grandmother lived together for 60 years in their quaint home, which he referred to as “The Little House on the Prairie.” Every inch of their home was saturated with cherished memories, laughter, and antiques that had been passed down for generations. 

Their life as they knew it reached a sudden halt in May of 2020, when my grandmother contracted COVID-19, and my grandfather experienced a stroke. In one fell swoop, Opa lost his wife, his mobility, and the life they had built. Although initially resistant towards moving into this retirement community, Opa eventually accepted where he was planted and was thriving there ever since. 

When I reflect upon the impact that Opa has had on this community in such a short amount of time, I am both inspired and challenged. Many times, after I’ve experienced disappointment or heartache, I focus on what was lost instead of what I still have. It’s tempting to romanticize the past and believe that the best days are gone; however, as my pastor Judah Smith often says, “If you’re still sucking oxygen on planet Earth, God has a plan and purpose for your life, and the best days are yet to come.” 

I have to remind myself that God can work anything together for good and—if we trust Him with our pain—we can discover what He wants to do next in our lives. Rather than hardening our hearts and enshrouding ourselves with bitterness in the midst of disappointment, what would it look like to surrender to the beauty of the new possibilities that await?

As I prepare to return to my current home in Los Angeles, I wonder if I’ll ever get to hold Opa’s hand again. I’m tempted to yearn for the “simpler days” when I was a kid, without a care in the world. The simpler days without tearful goodbyes. The simpler days when I’d have sleepovers at “The Little House on the Prairie” and Opa would tuck me in “just like a mummy.” Now, before I leave for the airport, I tuck Opa into his bed, asking if he remembers the “mummy” days. With his eyes still closed and a smile on his face, he nods. I lower my mask to kiss his forehead, and I say goodbye. 

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