Hope for Your Heart: Finding Strength in Life's Storms (4 page)

The noun
hope
in the New Testament is the Greek word
elpis
, which means “favorable and confident expectation” and always relates to “the unseen and to the future.”
³
Although certain translations of the Bible use the word
hope
from both the cultural and Christian perspectives, the undeniable focus of spiritual hope is
guaranteed hope in God
and in His promises
.

But can we always be sure that Christian hope is
guaranteed
, 100 percent of the time? Christian hope can sound beyond belief . . . unreal . . . far-fetched. Nevertheless, you can have absolute confidence in the promises of God simply because they
are
the promises of God, and He has proven Himself time and time again. They are not the promises of a finite, frail human being, but they are the promises of an infinite, all-powerful God.

It is impossible for any human being to resurrect someone from the dead or part the sea in half or calm a raging storm or save a soul from hell. But it is no challenge for the Creator of life to save life or to restore life. Nothing is impossible to Him who holds all of creation in the palm of His hand. He knows the subconscious thoughts and the secret intentions of every heart.

He who spoke the world into existence can certainly keep His word to those whom He created, loves, and sustains. Furthermore, He is Truth and cannot tell a lie. His words and His promises are sure. The Bible gives this assurance: “It is impossible for God to lie” (Heb. 6:18).

He is the ultimate life preserver. My hope and prayer today is that the Sandras of this world will find true hope in Christ, their unfailing Anchor.

Our true Anchor, Christ, guarantees us hope in any situation because He is in control . . . not circumstances, not people. We can have an unfailing hope because Jesus is our unfailing Anchor.

Hearing “A storm is coming!” on a newscast can be helpful in planning your day. Especially if you don’t want your hopes to be dashed by a downpour when you’re taking a hike or a trip to the park. Maybe the next day will be better. But how much do you know about storms? How do you know if a storm is serious?

For most people, storms are merely dark clouds, thunderclaps, and a short rain shower. Few people know about other kinds of storms, such as cyclones, typhoons, and hurricanes.

Just for clarification, let’s understand certain terms:

• Cyclones
  are storms with a closed system of winds that rotate clockwise south of the equator and counterclockwise in the Northern Hemisphere.
  
• Hurricanes/typhoons
  are types of tropical cyclones in the Northern Hemisphere that have sustained winds of 74 mph or more. The term
  hurricane
  is used for cyclones east of the International Dateline, whereas
  typhoon
  refers to storms west of the International Dateline.
  

Most weather buffs know about the Saffir-Simpson Hurricane Scale developed in the early 1970s that details the wind speeds and storm surges associated within five categories.
Storm surge
refers to the abnormal rise in sea level caused by the force of a hurricane’s spiraling wind. Vertically, a storm can surge over twenty feet and horizontally over several hundred miles. This scale is used to estimate the potential property damage and flooding expected along the coast when a hurricane hits land.

• Category 1—
  Minimal
  : 74–95 mph winds/4–5 foot storm surge
  
• Category 2—
  Moderate
  : 96–110 mph winds/6–8 foot storm surge
  
• Category 3—
  Extensive
  : 111–130 mph winds/9–12 foot storm surge
  
• Category 4—
  Extreme
  : 131–155 mph winds/13–18 foot storm surge
  
• Category 5—
  Catastrophic
  : 155+ mph winds/18+ foot storm surge
  

In 1989, Category 4 Hurricane Hugo battered Charlotte, North Carolina—a city 175 miles
inland
. Its 100 mph winds destroyed buildings, downed power lines, and uprooted trees, turning small items left outside into flying missiles.
⁴

Compared to those figures, tropical depressions (0–38 mph winds) and tropical storms (39–73 mph winds/0–3 foot storm surge) seem mild. That’s why when meteorologists give “storm warnings,” the sense of urgency and precaution escalates along with the categories. You could probably withstand a tropical depression with little care, but when a Category 5 hurricane blows in, you’d better board up the windows, batten down the hatches, and hightail it out of there!

What is the difference between a hurricane watch and a hurricane warning? A
watch
reports that a storm will hit within thirty-six hours and a
warning
within twenty-four hours. Proverbs 22:3 says, “A prudent man sees danger and takes refuge, but the simple keep going and suffer for it.”

Real-life storms are a lot like the meteorological kind. They come in various shapes, sizes, and severities. Sometimes we experience inconvenient “downpours” (flat tires, forgotten appointments, canceled flights). Sometimes we encounter a “squall” (major fights, job firing, forced relocation). Sometimes we are forced to endure a full-fledged “hurricane” (demoralizing abuse, devastating illness, divorce, death of a loved one). Our problems run the gamut.

Weathering storms could be frightening if it weren’t for this rock-solid fact: We have a steadying force . . . One who gives us
steadfast
hope. With Christ as our personal Anchor, we are promised an anchored life. The psalmist said, “God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea, though its waters roar and foam and the mountains quake with their surging.”
⁵

What type of storm are you facing? Christ Himself will be your hope. He knows how to give you strength.

He will be your personal Anchor and will hold you steady through the storm.

Do it, June! Drive off the bridge! It would be so easy! Why not?
How clearly I remember those desperate words, coursing through my mind on a cloudless summer day. As a newly licensed teen driver, I tightened my grip around the steering wheel of my car and seriously contemplated whether this was the day to bring a quick and welcome end to a life of just fifteen years.

My foot was poised on the accelerator, the compulsion to press down building, when all of a sudden I felt an overpowering restraint.
Wait! What if I’m not successful? I could end up only maiming myself. Then Mom
would have the huge burden of needing to take care of me for the rest of my life!

Looking back, I remember the painful emotions churning inside me and the hopelessness that wrought such upheaval in my life. It wasn’t that I
wanted
to kill myself—I just wanted to stop the pain. Relentless, unspoken, soul-ravaging pain. Hopelessness had settled over my life like a dense, endless fog. Its source? My own, very personal, very private, four-letter word: h-o-m-e.

From the outside, my family
looked
like we had it all: a lovely house . . . a “successful” father . . . a gracious mother . . . four well-behaved children . . . a lifestyle of plenty. But locked inside the walls of that lovely house was an
unlovely
family dynamic, a secret life that ripped hope from my heart and dashed it to pieces like a sailboat in a tsunami.

My story of chaos begins with my father. In his public life he was widely acclaimed as a successful businessman, but in our family he was chronically critical and cruel, hardly a “success.”

We were a family “on the side”—my parents weren’t married until I was age twelve. I’ll never forget the time when I was eight years old, and my father, mother, brother, and I were on a rare vacation in Colorado Springs, Colorado. A couple my parents knew and their twelve-year-old daughter had joined us for the trip.

Rae Jean and I were in the far backseat of a big Suburban that my father had leased, while the adults occupied the seats in front of us. Cruising around town, Rae Jean began acting up, as restless and cooped-up young girls often do. Her squirrelly behavior went on for a while, until Dad finally reached his limit.

“Rae Jean,” he shouted, “if you don’t stop, I’m putting you out!”

Maybe she just thought it was an idle threat. Rae Jean didn’t know that my dad’s threats were never idle.

As for me, I was well aware of his temper, so I sat silently, motioning for her to settle down.

Sure enough, my dad braked to a stop on the side of the highway, stepped out of the car, and opened the rear door where Rae Jean sat.

“Out!” he yelled.

Once she was out of the car, my dad got back in and drove off. Her parents, undoubtedly fearful, sat silently as Rae Jean stood there, stunned, watching as the Suburban disappeared in the distance.

After driving around for a short while, my father circled back to retrieve Rae Jean from the side of the road where he had deposited her. Then, as Dad opened the door for Rae Jean to get in, he glared at me and said, “Now you, out!”

I was shocked and incensed even as a little child. Whatever he may have thought, I knew I was innocent. I wanted to say, “I didn’t do anything wrong. I don’t deserve to be put out!” But I had learned in my brief eight years that the only opinion that mattered was my father’s, so I bit my tongue and climbed out of the car.

I assumed his plan of action would be the same for me as for Rae Jean. Well, I wasn’t about to just stand there and wait for him to decide my fate. I looked around, picked my route, and started walking . . . away from the direction he had just taken.

Of course, being totally unfamiliar with my surroundings I had no destination in mind, but I was determined to show my dad that he wasn’t in control . . . I was!

Night began to fall, and I found myself in a nice housing subdivision. I was naturally terrified but refused to show it, my anger and indignation still fueling my resolve. I decided to ask for help, so I picked a house that looked safe and knocked on the door. Fortunately, the kind couple living there took pity on me.

I couldn’t remember the name of the hotel where we were staying. “Could you remember the hotel if we drove you around?” they asked. I didn’t know, but when we walked into one certain lobby, I recognized the red carpet. There were my parents, waiting for me, with Dad acting as unsympathetic and unconcerned as ever.

Forcing me out of the car was, to me, a case of callous injustice and indifference. It was unfair and said to me, “You don’t count. You’re not really here.” Dad was not interested in me or my feelings . . . or justice. This was a pervasive pattern in my home life.

The issue for me was feeling trapped . . . desperately wanting to get out, wanting something different, but being unable to escape. When Dad was demeaning, I didn’t feel I could do anything. Everything seemed so fatalistic . . . so dark . . . so hopeless.

In addition to his harsh temperament, my father’s unabashed lifestyle of infidelity took a terrible toll on our family . . . especially on my mother, who was half his age when they married. When they met, he already had a wife and six children, the second-born the same age as my mother.

I believe that by marrying my dad, Mother was attempting to fill a father void in her heart, created by her own father’s death when she was three years old. Even after becoming aware that their relationship was wrong, she succumbed to the lure of a persistent, persuasive father figure. My father was a very powerful man; few people
ever
told him no.

Dad was also excessively possessive of Mother. Beautiful, submissive, charming, she was the classic trophy wife. He proudly showed her off at his frequent dinner parties, where she shined like a lighthouse against the dark backdrop of his stormy disposition.

We four children were forbidden to speak at mealtimes (“Children are to be seen, not heard.”) unless there was a topic of conversation that would be of interest to everyone. Since nothing we said was ever interesting to Dad, we rarely spoke.

I remember him often telling me, “You are a bad influence on your mother.” At other times he would complain, “All of you children are a bad influence on your mother!”So immediately after dinner each night, we were ordered upstairs to our rooms. Further contact with Mother was forbidden.

Mother’s heart ached over his possessiveness and prohibitions. After dinner she would use any excuse to embark on her nightly mission of shuttle diplomacy . . . clandestinely dashing upstairs to make the rounds room-by-room . . . checking on us, hugging us, encouraging us before returning to my father’s side. Nurturing our tender hearts was her true priority, although he tried to deny her that right.

In truth, my mother and I experienced a role reversal as I tried to be her protector. But no matter how hard I worked at it, I didn’t have the power to keep her safe. Sometimes when Dad would discover her crying over his flagrant adulterous indiscretions, he would come into my bedroom and dogmatically allege, “Your mother is mentally ill today.”

Though outraged and incredulous over the callousness of his words, I knew I should take them seriously nonetheless. Dad’s eldest son from his first marriage had been institutionalized for years, diagnosed as paranoid schizophrenic.

And though I knew tears were not a sign of mental illness and that my half-brother’s diagnosis was completely legitimate, I also knew this: Dad had money; money buys power; power buys people. I was deathly afraid that Dad would pay a psychiatrist to institutionalize Mother.

Dad terrorized Mother not only by asserting that she was mentally ill but also by taking her to different psychiatrists. Although no doctor ever diagnosed her with any kind of mental disorder, just the mention of mental illness struck terror in her heart . . . and in mine.