Day 22: A Realistic Hope

Hope is not the same as blind optimism--it has to be based in reality

A couple weeks ago, I sat in my oncologist’s office waiting for a phlebotomist to call me in before my six-month checkup. Growingly frustrated that people who came in after me were getting called in, while I was not, I barely noticed when a woman sat down next to me. When I grunted in reply to her friendly greeting, she promptly got up and moved a couple seats down and engaged someone more congenial. When that person got called into the lab, she had no choice but to try to connect with me again.

“I drove here all by myself,” she said. And after a thoughtful pause she added, “And I didn't bowl anybody down.”

This caught my attention. I looked up from my phone and turned my head to see an elderly white woman barely half my size but clearly with more years on her than I have. I’ll call her Grace. “That's a good day then,” I smiled and added, “when you can drive yourself and not bowl anybody down.”

My response was enough to know that I could be enticed into conversation, and she moved back to the chair next to me.

“I'm 100 years old and seven months, and I still do my own dishes. And my own laundry,” she added with a hint of pride in her voice. “I live with my 85-year-old sister, who does the cooking, but I take care of myself.”

“That's fabulous,” I replied, “you've got a few years on me—31 to be precise—and I already complain about doing those things.”

“I eat anything I want.” The tone changed, almost imperceptibly, as if a child just got caught with their hand in the cookie jar, “but I can tell if I've had too much salt. So, when that happens, I cut down a little bit.”

“Yeah, salt will get you, but it makes sense to eat whatever you want at this stage.”

Grace then pointed up toward the heavens and looked me in the eye. “I still pray to Jesus.” She waved her hand in the air, and I couldn’t tell if she was being dismissive or inviting. “And I don’t care what you think about that.” Then speaking more quietly as if in a confessional, she said, “I don't ask him for anything anymore. I just thank him.”

I nodded. “That makes a lot of sense,” and after a pause, “Sounds like you’ve had a good life.”

Then she turned her lithe body, looked right at me, and asked a question that clearly had great import to her. “Do you travel?”

Bemused by the intensity with which she asked, I told her that I loved to travel and, in fact, was planning a trip to Alaska this summer to check off my fiftieth state.

Without hesitation, she commanded, “You must drive! Two girlfriends and I drove from here all the way up through Canada and across the Yukon into Alaska and then down through British Columbia and into California. We drove 15,000 miles, and it wasn't even a new car. We didn't have any trouble at all.”

Just then, before I had a chance to ask her how many years had passed since she made this trip or anything else about it, the technician opened the door and called my name. As I stood up and walked toward the lab, I looked at Grace and said, “Thank you. I hope I’m as spry as you are when I get to be your age.”

And that was that. A fleeting encounter, but one that I will not forget any time soon. I regret now that I didn’t get her name, that I didn’t ask where she lived, that I didn’t make plans to visit her. I know she would have many fascinating stories with which to regale a visitor.

What struck me about Grace is that she has a clear sense of what she can hope for and what is her reality. The gratefulness in which she seems to live oozed from her pores. She doesn’t ask Jesus for anything anymore, she told me, she just thanks him. That’s a powerful admission. At the same time, her desire to keep taking care of herself as much as possible is a way for her to embrace hope without naivety—a kind of realistic optimism. She sees the world as it is yet still dares to hope for a few things—to eat what she wants, take care of herself, and maybe even drive someplace now and then (without bowling anyone over!).

I often find myself balancing hope and reality. Hope might propel me forward, while reality keeps me grounded. I don’t know about you, but it's easy for me to conflate hope with expectation. Expectations are specific, often rigid, and can lead to disappointment when unmet. Hope, however, is more fluid—a belief in the possibility of positive outcomes without the confines of specific demands. By distinguishing between the two, I can remain open to various ways my hope might be fulfilled.

As I’ve contemplated hope these last three weeks, I’ve come to understand that inherent in hope is an expectation that I acknowledge reality—that I manage expectations. Only in that way can I navigate the complexities of life—the unexpected and the unplanned—with grace and resilience. I believe that this balanced approach allows me to dream without losing my footing, to aspire without ignoring what’s real. I pray that whatever’s ahead for me in 2025, I remember Grace and am able to find the balance between my hopes and my reality.

Today’s Reflection

How do you balance hope and expectations? Write about a time when your reality didn’t meet what you had hoped for. Is there a time when you didn’t let yourself hope and the reality exceeded your expectations? How do you reconcile those two experiences? Which one serves you better in the long run?

With hope in my heart,

Annette

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