Hope is… an outstretched hand in the dark… a staircase into the unknown… a thing with feathers that perches in our soul.  Poets, philosophers and spiritual leaders have always used a myriad of images to describe our intangible belief that things will improve – the illness will be cured, love will be found and the dream will be achieved.
Hope, which is often an extension of faith, can be inspired by God or religious scripture.  Sometimes it’s found in the compassion of a stranger lending a hand after a disaster – and sometimes hope whispers to the deepest recesses of our souls urging us to reach deeper into our own determination to succeed.  Even in the worst of times, we can still find a reason to hope.

When I was little, Mimi was a frequent visitor in our home.  Several days a week, she would arrive for afternoon coffee with my mother.  They’d give me a ceramic mug of milk with a splash of coffee in it, so I wouldn’t feel left out.  Mimi always took the time to make sure I was included in the conversation.

Being with her was always a treat for me.  Our time together was often spent playing or singing.  If she wasn’t teaching me the words to “Lavender’s Blue” or another children’s song, it would be a current hit by one of our favorite performers like Dionne Warwick or The Carpenters.

Sometimes, we just watched TV together.  I have vivid memories of sitting on her lap at three years old watching “The Wizard of Oz” for the first time.  Frightened by the flying monkeys and the wicked witch, I clung to her as her soothing voice reassured me of my safety.  Looking back, I’m grateful it was a black-and-white TV.  Had I known that the Wicked Witch of the West was green back then, I may have never left her lap.

In the end, it really didn’t matter what Mimi and I were doing because it was being together that always made it special.

As we both grew older, things changed a bit.  I went on to college and moved across the country to California.  Months apart turned into years, but we always kept in touch.  Then she became a great-grandmother when I gave birth to my son, Sam.

It was something she could hardly comprehend: partly because she couldn’t believe her “little” 30-year-old granddaughter was now a mother herself; the other part was due to the early stages of dementia.

Like Alzheimer’s, dementia is a cruel disease.  It takes wonderfully vital, competent and intelligent people and strips them of their mental capacities, including their lifetime of memories.

When she started telling people in her nursing home that I was her niece – and that my son was my mother’s child, I knew the woman I loved all my life was quickly disappearing.  I also knew that the wonderful memories we once shared together were now mine alone. 

I had always been a firm believer in that we ultimately get what we deserve: good or bad.  I think that’s what made her condition so devastating for me.  She certainly never deserved this.  I thought how cruel it was of God to inflict this disease on her.  How could He let this happen to such an incredible woman? It was a strong blow to my faith, which was already on shaky ground from some of life’s other disappointments.  And when she passed away on that August morning, I knew my life would never be the same.

That night I sat dazed in my apartment staring at the television, channel surfing mindlessly.  When I came across a biography of “The Carpenters,” I paused momentarily.

Within a few seconds, their song, “They Long to be (Close to You)” starting playing.  It snapped me out of my daze and, for the first time that day, a smile burst from my lips.

It was our song… and I had almost completely forgotten about it.  She used to say the song was all about me.  Mimi used to sit me on her lap, wrap her arms around me and we’d sway back and forth while she sang.

As I listened to those words flows from Karen Carpenter, I knew it was Mimi’s sign to me that she had crossed over successfully.  The woman I knew and loved was back.  What had been taken from her in the cruelest of ways had been restored on the other side. 

At that point, I started to realize that no matter how bad things seem, no situation is ever really hopeless.  When we least expect it, hope can be resurrected.  And if we listen closely, we may discover that hope can still be heard – sometimes hope speaks, sometimes it sings and sometimes hope whispers.

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