Most people’s hope floats. Most people’s happiness is a boat on smooth waters, chugging along until…
It springs a tiny leak. But then that person plugs it right away. And it’s all better and they can keep chugging along, even though the boat is floating a little lower in the water. And everything is fine, until suddenly the cork comes out, and they have to plug it again, although now the boat has really taken on water and it’s wading a little lower. But it’s okay — most people just pick up the bucket and bail the water out. The boat is not the same as before, but they have confidence it will get better (or at least not any worse).
But that’s most people. And by my tone, I’m assuming you know that that’s not me.
See, my hope is a submarine. It’s cruising along the bottom of the ocean. It actually belongs at the bottom, so that no one sees it coming. And to get it to the surface, you’ll need a lot of weight pulling it up. I mean, a lot. You can add one weight at a time, pulling on it, but you won’t notice much of a difference until it’s fully up. It’ll just be at the bottom, moving along. And you can see out the windows, but that’s really it. You only have a small space to move in, to see in.
That’s my day and my life. My hope is a submarine. And a few weights are added each day, a few good things happen, but not much to make a difference. And that’s the hardest part. Because I want my hope to float, in spite of everything. I want to feel bouyant and happy. But I just feel dragged down.
At any rate, I’m learning that it’s okay to have a hope submarine. As long as your propeller is intact and you keep moving, it’s okay if your submarine doesn’t resurface or if your boat takes on water. As long, as you keep moving, you can still see the world.