Gritty Hope

And what comes next

There’s something you should know about me (although it may have been crystal clear all along): I’m an optimist. Like, the annoying kind. The kind who doesn’t care if the glass is half full or half empty but rejoices over a single drop at the bottom because it’s enough to wet my tongue. Forget silver linings, I find exquisite beauty in cloudy days. And though I’m a quiet person, my confidence that “All shall be well, and all shall be well, and all manner of thing shall be well” (thank you, Julian of Norwich) is on par with Buddy the Elf and the indomitable Helen Keller and even Lloyd Christmas from Dumb and Dumber when he exults: “So you’re saying there’s a chance!” (If you haven’t seen the movie, my friends, there was absolutely no chance.)

Yes, I’m an optimist. But when I go down, I go down hard. Maybe this is a trait of all optimists (Care to weigh in fellow sunny-siders?), but when my hope is shattered, I have a very difficult time picking up the pieces. So it was this week as the world I thought I knew turned out to be rather unrecognizable.

• I grieved as online misogyny soared after Nick Fuentes posted: “Your body, my choice. Forever.”

• I cried when Black Americans across the country began receiving text messages instructing them to report to the nearest plantation.

• I felt sick when Matt Walsh and others posted that Project 2025 was the plan all along.

• I burned with fury when signs calling women property appeared on a Texas campus.

• I was shocked when a self-proclaimed Christian man in my community posted on Facebook “we need to rid our country of that human trash” referring to undocumented immigrants.

• And horrified when an evangelist with ties to my hometown urged his supporters to “get rid of inclusive religious rhetoric” and abandon relationships with friends and family who voted differently.

I’ve learned a couple of things this week. First, I don’t have the power or influence to change anyone’s mind. Not my friends or family; not even my own kids. My imagined impact in the world is less than a whisper; a sobering and yet strangely grounding realization. Second, nothing I say or do will be exactly the right thing. No matter what, someone will be hurt or offended, will deem me “safe” or not, will lean in or cancel me based on a variety of quickly changing and impossible to discern standards. Be silent. Be loud. Speak up. Just listen. Grieve. Rejoice. Have patience. Jump right in. Finally, although it seems everything has changed, in some ways, nothing has changed at all.

Years ago, when I visited Monrovia, Liberia for the very first time, I sat in a stuffy church as the congregation filed in for Sunday service. The second Liberian civil war had ended less than a decade before, and the UN still manned checkpoints all over the city. I had been horrified to see the obvious artifacts of war (men and women missing limbs, bullet holes riddling public buildings, orphans running in the streets), and hoped church would provide a safe haven from the storm. It seemed my wish was granted as joy began to fill the space when congregants enthusiastically greeted one another and prepared for worship. Emmanuel, the pastor, leaned over to me and said, “See that man and that woman?” They were embracing and exchanging pleasantries as they found their seats. “He killed her brother.” I didn’t believe him at first, but Emmanuel pointed out more and more unlikely friends. These people had lived through hell together, and came out the other side still believing in the inherent goodness and shared humanity of one another. They embraced forgiveness, believed in the power of second chances, and came together to begin the process of restoring their world.

Their hope for their community and country wasn’t a flighty, ethereal thing, but a gut-deep, resolute, gritty sort of hope that held on tight and refused to let go.

Our world has always been (and will always be) a bewildering mosaic of broken and beautiful. And though I’m not trying to minimize the impact of injustice, war, famine, greed, or any other manner of evil, I’ve learned another thing: hope is really all we have. I’m not talking about optimism (confidence in the successful outcome of something) but true, messy, tenacious hope that is boots on the ground. Real hope is hard work, it’s open hearts and willing hands. It is diving in and getting it wrong, then apologizing and humbly trying over and over and over again. It’s standing in the gap, even when it hurts. Especially then.

This Stays Here began as an exploration of community, of the ways that we can show up for each other and be better friends and neighbors. That mission hasn’t changed one bit, and I still and will always believe that we are better together. We belong to each other, friends. I don’t think that’s a Pollyanna proclamation; it’s a battle cry. We don’t have the luxury of being disconnected or apathetic—we are brothers and sisters and what wounds you pains me, too. We need each other now more than ever, and the reminders our mothers whispered in our ears should become the mantras that shape our lives today and always: Be kind. Be good. Stand up for the marginalized, hurting, and bullied. Or, even better:

Be loving and joyful. Promote peace. Embody patience, kindness, and goodness. Cultivate faithfulness and gentleness. Practice self-control.

Mister Rogers famously told us to look for the helpers when life gets hard. My dear friends, WE are the helpers. May we take our call seriously, carrying hope wherever we go.

Thanks for reading. xoxo - Nicole

I’m a proud member of the Iowa Writers’ Collaborative, a roundup of world-class journalists who call Iowa home. I invite you to check out the group and become a paying member of one or more of our pages.