Hope as Rebellion in a World That Hurts

This has been another heavy week. The state of our world and our country has weighed on me in ways that feel almost unbearable. I continue to grieve the loss of humanity through Charlie Kirk’s assassination, the constant reports of shootings, the division that only seems to deepen. On top of that came the ache of sending my niece to college and the familiar grind of living with chronic pain, all while still showing up for responsibilities. It has been a week that almost made hope feel like a fragile, feeble, unattainable concept… Almost.
Sunday, my family and I watched Charlie Kirk’s memorial, and my soul needed that. Under the crushing ache of grief for our country and for humanity, there were moments that not only restored my faith in people but also reignited my own faith. The service began with Charlie’s pastor proclaiming that the answer to all of life’s struggles could be found in Jesus Christ. His short sermon ended with an invitation for anyone who wanted to accept Christ into their hearts to stand. In the silence that followed, the stadium seemed to breathe as hundreds rose to their feet. It was breathtaking.
Later, Erika took the stage and reminded “older” Christians of our duty to help new Christians grow, to nurture faith rather than let it wither. And then she gave a living example of what that looked like. With tears in her voice, she spoke of Charlie’s heart for the lost, especially young men searching for direction, and then she said something I will never forget:

“My husband, Charlie, he wanted to save young men just like the one who took his life. That young man. That young man on the cross, our Savior said, ‘Father, forgive them for they know not what they do.’ That man, that young man, I forgive him. I forgive him, because it was what Christ did, and it is what Charlie would do.”

Her strength undid me. Her ability to forgive, to answer hate without hate, felt like an act of rebellion against despair. A choice to hold on to hope when bitterness would have been so much easier.
The week held another goodbye I was not ready for: taking my niece to college. I cannot begin to put into words how much I love this kid. Summers glued to my side, late-night talks, and in the past four years, sharing a home as she grew from a struggling teen into a compassionate, responsible, joy-filled young woman. Somewhere along the way, she became my best friend. So watching her walk into this new chapter undid me all over again. We barely made it out of sight before texting each other how much we already missed one another. Yet even through tears, I know she is prepared. I have hope that the same character I have seen in her will only deepen as she steps into adulthood.
And then, as autumn arrives, my body has started its annual rebellion. Chronic pain flares in my knees, hips, and back, leaving me drained by the time I get home from school. Most evenings are spent either trying to dull the ache or scrambling to prepare for another day. But even so, each morning I choose to meet my students with a smile. Teaching through pain is not easy, but it is one small act of resistance: to believe that my students deserve joy and consistency even when my body would rather collapse. Some days, that is all hope looks like… showing up when you do not feel like you can.
Hope is not naïve. It is radical. It refuses to let hatred, grief, or pain have the final word. It breathes in stadiums filled with new believers, it lingers in the goodbye hug between aunt and niece, and it steadies trembling knees in the classroom. Hope is my rebellion, and I choose it.