I raise my mallet and drop it on the plastic mole’s head that pops from the hole. It disappears, and two more heads poke up from different holes. I strike them both down. Three more jump up from various spots. I shift my feet, urgency flooding me, and whack every new emerging one. Faster, faster! my brain screams to my arms. I’m trying, I’m trying! my arms holler back. More heads, more hits. Heart pounding, moles erupting, arms flailing. Then the game ends. A little sweaty and winded, I look at my score. Maybe next time I’ll be faster.
People liken trouble that crops up here and there and everywhere to the arcade game’s moles, but this week those moles remind me of our tenacious hopes, springing up, despite life’s big hammer trying to take them out. It’s a silly thought, Whac-A-Mole, during this contemplative season of the year, but the persistence of hope—here and there and everywhere—is undeniable.
Where there’s a goal, there’s hope. Where there’s a plan, there’s hope. Where there’s a birth, there’s hope.
Last Sunday ignited the first light of Advent, the Candle of Hope, and I’ve thought about hope every day since then. The first candle of Advent is also called the prophecy candle, so the story is not only about hope but about hope while waiting. Now that’s where it gets hard.
I awoke this morning to the words HOPE IN THE WAIT waving through my mind like a banner. I don’t like waiting for promises to come true—humanity doesn’t like it—especially waiting for thousands of years for an ancient prophecy to be born. But that’s what happened. The vow in Eden took millennia to reach Golgotha. But the pounding hammer on that hill couldn’t nail down our relentless and victorious hope. He sprang up, and so can we. The wait was worth it.
But here we are in December, remembering like we always do, the middle—the time between tempting garden and failed grave—when a baby ripped through the darkness and let in the light with his coming. And we celebrate. The long-awaited hope is here.
O holy night! The stars are brightly shining
It is the night of our dear Savior's birth
Long lay the world in sin and error pining
'Til he appeared and the soul felt its worth
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn
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*Names in this blog have been changed to protect my family, neighbors, and friends in the neighborhood, and in a nod of appreciation to the beloved Swedish author Maj Lindman, I’ve renamed my three blondies Flicka, Ricka, and Dicka.