Hope on Hold.

If it's not clear by now, I will tell you up front: I love stories.
I've always been fascinated by them in any form. I love fictional stories and I love real stories. I love stories that are written down, told orally, shared through pictures, and produced on the cinematic screen. Simply put, I love stories.
Whenever I meet a new couple, I always love to hear their story. How did they meet? How did they get together? What was the chronology of their relationship? How did he propose?
Stories of all kinds are my favorite. Dramatic, funny, sad, romantic, you name it, I love it. I'm just so fascinated by the way that stories are told, the way they unfold in fiction and in reality. Honestly, that, more than anything else, is why I can't stop writing, because I just love stories.
As such, I secretly (or not so secretly) hope that my life has a really good story. You all know secondhand (through my firsthand accounts) that the development of my relationship with Office Boy had a good story. And I loved that. I loved that the story was interesting and dramatic and romantic and funny.
It's a bit ridiculous and probably kind of shallow, but I've always been afraid that my story with my future husband would be boring. That we wouldn't meet in an interesting way and that the development of our relationship would be "normal" (ie. he'd ask me out, I'd say yes, we'd start dating, we'd keep dating until he proposed, the end...well, not really, but you know what I mean). My parents, my grandparents, my sister and her husband all met in interesting ways and had dramatic and romantic stories. And I want that, too. Because all the great stories are about overcoming obstacles. The most romantic stories (in our minds) are ones where despite fears, difficulty, obstacles, pain, and anything else that stands in the way, they still make it, it still works out, they still end up together.
Years from now when my children and grandchildren ask, "How did you and dad/granddad meet?" I want to tell them the story and have them think what I thought when I heard my parents story, "That's so cool. I want a neat story like that."
A couple of months ago, I started going to counseling. It's something I'd been considering for a while, since before Office Boy and I broke up, and the second anxiety attack confirmed that there was definitely stuff that I needed to work out and sort through with a counselor.

At my most recent session, my counselor and I talked a little bit about what I wrote about in my last post -- specifically the fact that he's still just Office Boy, but she pointed out that he's a whole lot more than that. He's Hope Boy, he's It Could Still Work Out Boy, because I epic fail at letting go.
She pointed out that there's nothing wrong with hoping. Hope is a good thing, but I'm not just hoping. The phrase she used was I'm in "hope on hold."
For the past two months, I've been hoping. Hoping that it was just a bad dream. Hoping that it'll all work out. Hoping that things will be "normal" again.
The problem hoping the way that I've been hoping is that it puts you on hold. It prevents you from moving forward because...what if? If any part of me hasn't let go and is still hoping that it will work out with Office Boy, then it prevents me from moving forward in all aspects of my life -- relational, professional, emotional. If another guy asked me out, I wouldn't be able to say yes because...what if? I might say no to some amazing professional opportunities because...what if? What if? What if?
That's the problem with having such an obsession with stories. Because I have the story written in my head and I know how it turns out in a way that I think is interesting, dramatic, funny, and romantic. And so when my story gets thrown out of whack for a little bit, while I sit and recalibrate, I sit there and keep asking "What if?"

The other problem with this kind of logic, is the constant "what if" questions that put you on hold allow no room for God to continue His work. By hoping in the way that I've been hoping, it's like I've been sitting on my bed and pouting and even though God might be offering a hand and saying, "Come here with Me and let's continue the story. I've got a surprise for you." I ignore Him. I burrow deeper into my comfort level and pout and say, "But what if?"
I've been on hold for over two months and I'm done. I'm done with hope on hold. I haven't given up on hope, but rather than hoping in fairy tales, in romantic notions, in the hundreds of possible "what ifs," I've finally remembered where my hope is supposed to be in the first place.
Psalm 39:7 "But now, Lord, what do I look for? My hope is in you."

Psalm 62:5 "Find rest, O my soul, in God alone; my hope comes from him." 
Lamentations 3:21-22 "Yet this I call to mind and therefore I have hope: Because of the LORD's great love we are not consumed, for his compassions never fail."
Those are just a couple of verses that make it abundantly clear that our hope always has, always will come from Him and should never be in anyone or anything else.
I forget that. Far, far too often. And as I've been reflecting on things over the last few days, I've realized that each time I put my hope in something other than the Lord, my hope puts me on hold.
And so, my hope has shifted and things are changing. Check back Friday for the conclusion to these revelations.
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