A guest post by Marian Frizzell
She Chose Hope – Introductions
In this month’s edition of the She Chose Hope series, we have a wonderful post by writer, mother, and military wife Marian Frizzell. She is sharing with us her story about how God showed up in her weariness.
To also read the other stories in the series, click here.
Hope is a Person (By: Marian Frizzell)
On the eve of our seventh move in thirteen years (that’s if you don’t count a three month evacuation that led to moving into an RV for a year and a half), I was asked if I had a stop I was looking forward to most on our cross-country road trip to California. “Nope,” I replied, and then blushed with embarrassment at my bald honesty. We were with friends, so I knew they understood—military friends, so they’d been there too—but that moment was really indicative of how I felt about moving again.
Exhausted. Unsure. And a bit frayed at the edges.
The first leg of the trip, I followed my husband’s truck as we meandered through the mountains of Virginia, and I tried to pray about how I felt as tears slowly squeezed their way down my cheeks. The truth was that I didn’t want to feel how I was feeling. I wanted to be the gung-ho military wife off to have a new adventure with her Can Do attitude and her ability to make soup from a stone.
Instead, I was putting one foot in front of the other (metaphorically speaking: really, I was tapping the gas pedal as I kept a death grip on the steering wheel and tried to convince my children that my sanity was in legitimate peril if they kept whistling the whole way to California), and I was asking God over and over again to give me joy in that moment and hope for what was ahead.
I was asking Him to give me Himself.
I wasn’t thrilled about the move, but it wasn’t because I was worried it wouldn’t be good. I knew God would provide friends and a home and a community. He had done it countless times before, and I knew He would do it again. He had gotten us through far harden things—deployment babies, Cat 5 hurricanes, medical challenges, miscarriage—gotten us through them with grace leftover.
I wasn’t excited, because all I could see was my own weariness.
And so I circled back around again to Hebrews 12:2, NIV, letting the words put down roots in my heart: Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before Him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.
I don’t have to be optimistic and excited about this move (or the ones that will come after). I just have to keep my eyes locked on Christ. He endured much harder things for me—harder than the ones He’s already brought us through, harder than the ones that still lie ahead—because he could look past them to an eternal joy.
This is the difference between hope and optimism (a difference I keep returning to): it is the idea that Christ is the One worth looking forward to instead of looking to our circumstances or a desired outcome to bring us happiness. And this is why hope doesn’t disappoint (Romans 3:5, NASB).
It’s not about me and having things work out the way I want or expect. It’s not about everything lining up the way I asked or getting to do specific things at specific times. It’s not even about my ability to get my emotions to respond in a way I deem appropriate.
Hope is about Christ.
So as I drove, and the kids transitioned to loud slurping noises instead of their earlier whistling, and I tried to talk myself out of crying and into looking forward to what was next, I decided to just stop. To just stop trying to strong arm my emotional state and think about Christ instead.
I asked myself instead what do I know about the One I call Savior.
He never leaves us or forsakes us (Deuteronomy 31:6, ESV). He goes ahead of us to prepare a home for us (John 14:3, ESV). He is working all things for the good of those who love him (Romans 8:28, ESV). His yoke is easy and his burden is light (Matthew 11:30, ESV). He will strengthen us so that we can run and not grow weary, walk and not grow faint (Isaiah 40:31, ESV). All this and so much more.
I may not feel these truths yet. That doesn’t make them any less true.
And so as I keep putting one foot in front of another (tapping the gas pedal and gripping the steering wheel), I can let go of trying to force how I feel to align with what I want to feel and instead just try to remember that Jesus—because He could envision a beautiful forever with me—went through unimaginable pain for me. I can let that be my joy (even when I don’t feel it) and my hope (even when I don’t see it) and know that no matter what comes next, Christ will not disappoint.
Not ever.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Marian Frizzell entertains herself by bopping from one side of the US to the other with her military husband and their myriad military children. When she’s not unpacking the five hundred boxes of books she insists on owning, she homeschools aforementioned children (making sure to teach them about the country where she grew up), writes books she hopes will one day get published (and keeps up a blog), goes running to maintain her sanity (what’s left of it), and strives to encourage those around her (making them laugh is a bonus). She loves Jesus and wants to reflect his light. You can read her writing at www.marianfrizzell.com and follow her on Instagram or on Facebook.
