about the more of hope

When I was in elementary school, I used to ride my bike all around my Granny & Daddo's small farm in rural Virginia.  There was this little gravel road that stretched beyond their house, with a few more homes scattered along it, that wound up into a hill and gave way to this expansive view of the Blue Ridge.  

I would peddle up there, dust from the gravel smoking out behind my wheels, and stop at the top, leaning to one side so that my foot could balance on the ground without totally getting off.  I remember looking out into the mountain range and wondering what was beyond there.  Being small and imaginative, I loved the thought of things that must exist pass what I could see.  I daydreamed about tiny, colorful villages dotting the far side of the mountain, magical places with fairy creatures and talking animals and music.  

It just seemed so likely that there was more, and I loved to create images in my mind of what that more entailed.  

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Today I was reading Paul's letter to the Romans, and was struck by how often he talks about the present in light of what is to come.  I'm particularly intrigued by a section in my ESV translation titled "Future Glory". Paul asks this rhetorical question that spears me every time: 

"Now hope that is seen is not hope.  For who hopes for what he sees?" (Rom 8:24) 

And I kind of want to shake my fist at the text when I read it, because every part of me screams "I DO!" (or I try to, at least) 

Because it is scary being asked to hope in what you can't see.  It is easier to dream up some future filled with the people and places and opportunities you want, the ones you can imagine bringing you joy.  It is easier to hope in those colorful towns beyond the horizon and then fill them with things.  It is easier to step towards that kind of vision, because it feels like some sort of plan.  

But this is not what Paul's letter describes as hope and how it's to be defined.  As I learn about this word, I'm discovering how it pairs itself up with "more" - not just more than is present in our current world, but more than what we can even dream our futures into being. 

I often forget that God is more than me.  He is more creative, more benevolent, more filled with wisdom, more compassionate.  And so when I hope in the world of my dreams, because it's safer and still seems like a pretty good deal, I'm actually selling my life short. 

There is simply more, and in that more is where my hope belongs, in that space beyond the mountain ridges.  I can gaze at it in wonder, but it's fruitless to think myself capable of dreaming entirely what it will be.  

And as frustrating and scary as that is, there is some sort of comfort in knowing that even beyond the farthest stretches of what I dream and hope for, there is something more waiting for me.