When I was in elementary school, I shared a bedroom with my older sister. Our second story room was spacious, and its large windows overlooked the front yard and street. I remember watching out those windows on a cold, snowy night, anxiously awaiting the arrival of my two older brothers. They were away at college and were expected home for Christmas. There was a streetlight nearby illuminating the swirling flakes of sparkling snow. My sister and I had gone up to bed as it was already late, but we weren’t sleeping. We were talking dreamily, listening for a car to approach, occasionally pulling the curtains back to take a peek at the snow.

I felt the cold air on my skin. A second story bedroom in an old house in December doesn’t hold heat well, and we kept the thermostat low to save on electricity. Burrowing under the covers was the only way to keep warm.

The anticipation in the air was palpable. Older siblings returning after months away from home brought excitement and energy. Did they have Christmas presents for us? What games would we play together? Would they notice that I’d grown up just a little?

The corners of my eyes are crinkled up just now recalling the scene, remembering the emotions of a little girl with all of life ahead and bright moments still to come.

As a planner, I am consistently looking forward to something. It may be big, like an event I’m coordinating. It may be small, like taking a hot bath with a good book after a long day working in the yard. Whatever it is, I’m usually thinking of what’s coming next, and what I need to do to prepare for it – anticipating the moment itself as well as the process needed to get to that moment.

My adult life has included expectantly waiting to reach milestones: getting married, buying a house, having babies, becoming financially stable, raising grown children, empty-nesting, and someday retiring. Much thought and planning has gone into each level. I’ve imagined what each stage would look and feel like. I’ve taken steps to prepare for every significant life event and arranged the many small details for little celebrations and achievements along the way. Planning is a joy for me, thinking ahead to the needs of others and striving to create delightful and memorable experiences.

Always an optimist, I have struggled through the past five years, endeavoring to hang on to my hopeful life approach. A new sunrise each morning ushers in refreshed energy, but many a day’s end brings fitful hours of restless attempts at sleep. Initially I believed that my optimism and faith would be enough to carry me and everyone else in my household. I just needed to have resolve and remain strong, even when others couldn’t see the light ahead. Eventually I began to wear down, grasping at belief, barely hanging on to the idea that no matter what happened to my family or my marriage, I would cling to my faith, my hope. I certainly didn’t have enough optimism to carry those around me, let alone enough to prevent tears from spilling out of me at the slightest provocation.

I started writing not quite a year ago. I was still clinging to hope, envisioning a future where all of the trials of the past several years would wind down, and we’d come through it together with a story to tell that could bring positive expectation to others in a similar situation. I thought if I studied hard, overturning stones, stretching my comfort zone, I could draw my children in, and we could work together to forge a new path. I was full of hope. It was strained, but it was there.

My hope has mellowed through the progression of this year. My vision for what the future will look like has changed. It is much more uncertain. I have been shedding expectations.

Out of the chaos of my mind, I have sought new hope. I have been throwing away the extraneous, cleaning out the unneeded, reclaiming anticipation.

Decorating the house for Christmas this year included a look back, allowing loss and sorrow to exist alongside a new bud of hope for the future. Photo tree ornaments were lovingly handled, some going on the tree and some placed back into the box. Dreams and visions of the future that once were, allowed to come to rest, giving space for the emptiness before it will be filled with something new and different.

In my preparation for Christmas and a week of all of my children being back at home, I have not been sitting by a window looking out over a frosty scene wondering what gifts are coming, but I have been thinking about the games we’ll play. I have been wondering if they’ll notice that I have grown up just a little. I have been planning to make their favorite foods and to fill the pantry with things I know they enjoy. I have been carefully shopping for presents and stocking stuffers to delight and create memories. My hope for the week has been all of us experiencing peace together at the intersection of our paths.

I contemplate hope as it relates to faith and think to myself about redemption. The connotation that goes with redemption is that of making things right or restoring to a state of newness, but maybe redeeming things is not returning them to a pristine condition, but rather making beautiful and worthwhile the pain within them.

Anticipating hopefully the redeeming of this pain, I plan expectantly for the future. One day at a time, I allow optimism to grow up and face reality, adapting and maturing, nuance and subtlety coloring it with shadow and highlights.

Though I am no longer a little girl with all of life ahead, there are bright moments still to come and hope on the horizon.