“Love always hopes and trusts.” I wrote that on my mini chalkboard and set it on my desk at the beginning of the year.
“I’ll be there in five minutes,” Matt would text, but I was always standing at the train station fuming.
“I’ll be on time tomorrow,” he’d say, and I’d roll my eyes and keep my mouth shut–actually it opened a lot.
I’m just being realistic, I’d tell myself. I can’t believe something that’s unlikely.
“No, love always hopes and trusts,” God kept saying. “Even when people haven’t proven themselves.”
“I really want to kill my cynicism this year, God, but always hoping and trusting seems ignorant. But I know expecting disappointment squishes Matt before he even starts.”
The quote sat next to my wedding picture. At first it inspired daily prayer, and then it became a rarely noticed fixture.
Still, one phrase is pretty easy to learn in a year. When I didn’t believe a promise, “Love always hopes and trusts,” God reminded me, and I tried to do whatever that meant.
When Matt had no reason to believe I’d be different next time, “Love always hopes and trusts,” I’d tell tell him.
Then I was ripping myself apart about whether to publish a book. I saw the familiar words again, and God asked me something crazy.
“Do I love you, Mary?”
“Yes, more than I ever knew.”
“Well then I hope and trust in you.”
“What! No, I hope and trust in you.” Like Dad says, you can love your enemies but you can’t trust them. Something isn’t right with the translation.
Another version says love hopes all things and believes all things. I can’t believe black is white, so what does that really mean?
“It means I’m not just giving you permission to write a book, Mary. I’m rooting for you.”
Talk about motivation. I’d do anything to prove myself to God, and now he’s cheering me to write like he made me to? Good heavens. I have no idea if I can pull this off.
But you bet I’m going to try like the king of the world is watching. And God’ll figure it out just like he showed me what love’s hope and trust really meant.