Get your hopes up. It's the only way forward.

The walls are bare in my old room, except for the wooden Annie Oakley plank I bought from a western store in Chicago about a week before I came home to be with my parents. I drove past the street lights right off the Dyersburg exit on my way in, and they reminded me of all the times I’ve returned home from a trip—some longer than others—to a familiar site: my own West TN lighthouse, letting me know I’m just 18 more minutes away from Friendship. Turn left on Bluebird Rd. See the Friendship sign across the street from Gary’s Automotive, right in front of the bank. The letter “p” is still crooked.

Moss reaches up the thick tree trunks on our two-acre property. The branches are skeleton fingers, but the grass is green. One flicker of certainty. I know it will grow warmer. I know it will grow greener. The buttercups I drove past on Bluebird Rd. are proof of that. 

There’s so much uncertainty in the world right now. I just graduated this past December. I moved and started a job in the Chicagoland area. Things fell into place for me. I’m thankful. 

People say not to get your hopes up after graduating. “You probably won’t get the job of your dreams right out of college.” They were wrong. At least they were wrong in my case. Granted, the advice is probably good in general, so I don’t want to be snobby. I guess I’m just thankful. Thankful that I didn’t have it as hard as some graduates do when they make the transition from college to the “real world”—whatever that is.

Just three months ago, getting a job seemed like my biggest concern, the primary subject of my attention and thoughts. 

Now I’m just thankful to have graduated, and my heart breaks for friends and acquaintances and seniors I’ve never even met before who aren’t able to finish their last season as an athlete, who won’t be able to say that official goodbye to their friends, who won’t be able to walk across the stage in a cap and gown and shake their president’s hand the way they’ve imagined for the past four years’ worth of battles and hard work and decisions to keep moving forward for that prize at the end. 

We all know the prize is bigger than just a piece of paper. And now that prize feels like just a piece of paper. 

They weren’t prepared for this. None of us were. This is weird. This is hard. This is devastating for so many, confusing. Out of work. Isolated from each other. Weddings canceled. Study abroad trips completely off the table. I’m talking of the coronavirus, as if I even need to make that distinction. We’re all aware. We’re all telling our news feeds to please give us something else to think about. 

My mom and I were talking tonight about how history books will teach our kids and grandkids about the time a virus hit the planet and ended the precious lives of our loved ones, kept us in isolation, interrupted our long-anticipated plans, and took a massive bite out of not just our economy but also our morale.

But then those history books will talk about how the virus was the great equalizer. 

How Jimmy Fallon released episodes of The Tonight Show—iPhone videos, filmed by his wife—in his own home with his kids climbing all over him. How that show was better than all those that came before it because of what it represented. 

How Italians stood on their balconies dancing and singing together, banging tambourines like drums during wartime: a loud, clear declaration that we’re marching forward no matter what, that we will get through this together and be better for it.

And the history books will say that we didn’t give up. That the greatest global unity the world has ever seen came from a global crisis that no one saw coming. That innovation skyrocketed, not just because of necessity, but because we suddenly became more human than we’d ever been before, even though that sounds like a cliché.

My heart is with those families who have lost loved ones because of this epidemic, with those who have experienced deep disappointment because of circumstances they couldn’t control. 

We’ve all been reminded lately just how little control any of us has, and it’s sobering. It’s a reality that prompts us to say “I love you” way more often. A reality that causes us to ask the hard questions of God, of ourselves, and of each other. A reality that lets us re-evaluate what the heck we were even doing the moment that all this stopped us mid-step. 

I would say that this crisis can be a gift, but I’m not going to. Not only is it insensitive to those who have lost so much, but it’s just not true. 

What is true, though, is that beauty can be born in the midst of ashes. Joy and hope can arise from situations that just suck, period. Not only is it possible, but it’s wonderfully inevitable. 

How do I know? Because I serve a God who is not responsible for evil, a God who never allows evil to have the last word, a God who desires good for our lives, a God who so skillfully refurbishes the substance of our everyday that crises like these try to demolish. And his remodel always, somehow, ends up better than the original.

I’m getting my hopes up, because it’s the only way forward. I’m not just hoping for myself, but especially for those who lie in bed at night in fear and deep disappointment. It’s not up to us to be in control. It’s not up to us to convince ourselves and others that the coronavirus is somehow a good thing. It’s up to us to feel. To be authentic. To let ourselves grieve. To give generously, trusting that we’ll have enough, because we serve the God of more than enough.

I love you all. My intention is to say that more in person, as soon as I can leave the house again.