Breathing In Hope

 Breathless. When I think of that word, I think of the time my sister, at 10 years old, slipped on a puddle in the bathroom and fell onto the side of the tub. The wind was knocked out of her so forcefully that she passed out. Or I remember the time my son broke his fall on his arm and his diaphragm. His first complaint was not the arm that was then broken, but that he got the wind knocked out of him. I think of this past Christmas, when the burning frankincense I had smelled gave me a reaction that almost sent me to the hospital- breathless.

Most of the time, we don't think about breathing. It comes naturally; the casual rise and fall of our chests goes completely unnoticed. There is too much life happening all around us to think about it. But every once in a while, life knocks the wind out of us- and breathing, or lack of it, is the only thing we think about. The only thing that's important. The only thing that matters. Being made breathless can happen physically, but it's not limited to that. It can happen in a moment. Like the moment you get shocking news, the moment you discover drugs in your child's room, or the moment you realize your marriage is in trouble. It can happen in the moment your doctor tells you the diagnosis, the moment in the office when they let you go, or the moment your car is slammed by another. Have you ever experienced that sudden jolt that jerks everything important into alignment? Suddenly, all the important things in life come floating to the surface, while all the unimportant things settle out of sight. 

Usually when life knocks the wind out of me, a fear blizzard forms, and the "what-ifs" come flying at my face like a gust full of snowflakes. And I see my husband, my kids, and my relationship with God with stunning clarity. The thoughts brought to mind aren't the material possessions I want, the comparisons I make, or the arguments I had that day with the kids. The thoughts brought to my mind are, "Did I love enough in life?" "God, are You still in control?" "Will my worst case scenario come true?" "Why did I spend so much time on the things that didn't matter?" The gifts that breathlessness brings are crystal clarity, properly held priorities, and this all important question: What am I breathing in?

I saw a movie last night where there was a crisis on a plane, and the passengers were energetic with panic. There were screaming women, frantic men, and pandemonium in the cabin. The captain, desperate to calm down his passengers, pressed the button to release the oxygen masks from the ceiling. The passengers were instructed to sit down and place the masks on their faces. They obeyed, and all got to task on breathing in and out. There was oxygen already in that cabin, because the frightened passengers were obviously very much alive. But the captain knew that they needed concentrated doses of oxygen to nourish their taxed lungs and hearts. He knew that getting them to sit and breathe would give them something to do other than panic. He knew that as they breathed in and out intentionally, that in time, their pulse would slow down and their lungs would relax.

If life has dealt you a blow in the stomach, and you're gasping for air, you're not alone. I've been there, as frightened as those passengers on the plane. Screaming, crying, and desperate for relief.  What are we going to breathe in? Will we heave and gasp fear, panic, and despair? Will we choke and sputter chaos, discouragement, and hopelessness? Or will we listen to the voice of our Captain to sit down, place the mask of faith on our faces, and breathe in concentrated doses of hope? The air in your lungs won't change your circumstance. The hope you breathe in will still allow for tears to make their way down your face. What you breathe in through the mask of faith is the hope that will keep you anchored when the wind and the waves threaten to tear your life apart. 

"Therefore, we who have fled to him for refuge can have great confidence as we hold to the hope that lies before us. This hope is a strong and trustworthy anchor for our souls." Hebrews 6: 18b-19a

I'm not promised that difficulties will go away. I'm not promised things will be easy. I'm not promised that life will go back to normal. I'm promised something even greater than that. 

I'm promised that the hope I breathe in through faith in Christ will be my anchor when the wind knocks the air out of my sails. 

Hope in what? Hope that God is faithful. Hope that He can redeem anything. Hope that He is in control when I feel out of control. Hope that when the pressure in my cabin changes, that the God of grace will drop my faith mask for me to use just in the nick of time. And He will for you too- as long as you draw breath, and beyond. You are anchored. You are loved. God has made a way for you to breathe again.