On hope

Since the fall I've been trying to make a regular habit of taking quiet time at night to pray.

In these cold months I've been sitting on the floor in front of the fire. Sometimes I pray like I hope, and other days I end up just thinking, my gaze wandering to the flickering flames or to the pictures on the mantle above me.

That space and those faces are always so comforting to see. My mom has done an amazing job of encapsulating memories there: the obligatory shots of me as a baby at either end; old family group shots; my grandparents in their prime; school portraits of my cousins from years ago and, recently, similar portraits of their young children.

The newest picture is of my dad's cousin Kurt, who passed away a week before Christmas after being sick most of his life. He died with renewed faith in God, and we all hope to see him again someday in heaven.

But I'll tell you a secret: I don't know what happens when we die. Heck, I don't know if anything I believe about faith is true. The days I actually feel convinced or convicted are rare gems in my world.

To some people, that may make me a bad Catholic, a bad Christian or even a functional agnostic. And maybe I am. Again, I don't know.

But I think that's the thing about having faith —it's faith, not evidence. We can't know what the future holds until we get there. Until then, we can choose to believe and we can hope. I'm OK with that. I wasn't always, but I am now.

If we're wrong, we'll never know. No harm, no foul.

And if we're right, unspeakable joy awaits us.

Why not hope?