Hope: What to Do When You Don’t Know What to Do

by | Nov 20, 2024 | Opinions & Commentary

Photo by Scott Warman on Unsplash

Hope: What to Do When You Don’t Know What to Do

by | Nov 20, 2024 | Opinions & Commentary

Photo by Scott Warman on Unsplash

How do we go back to anything resembling normal, knowing how many people we know and love, work and study and live alongside have tripled down on lawlessness and bigotry?

Republished with permission from John Pavlovitz

Being a part of History ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.

It’s rare in life that we can say we are in truly unprecedented times—but here we are.

This is a pivot point moment for our nation and for the world really, and despite how we are processing it or how we feel about it or the other places we’d prefer to be, we are here.

And right now in this moment, we can all admit to having a lot more questions than answers, questions like:

How do we hold the grief of all the dreams that feel like they died recently: the plans we made for ourselves, for our families, for this nation?

How do we tear up the script that we were supposed to be living right now of joyous celebrations and historic wins and wide-open possibility—and write a new one that we actually feel we can survive in, let alone thrive in?

How do we attend to the tens of millions of already vulnerable, oppressed, and marginalized people here, who in a matter of months will be the target of a movement of exclusion and hatred, with more power than it has had in decades?

How do we go back to anything resembling normal, knowing how many people we know and love, work and study and live alongside have tripled down on lawlessness and bigotry? How do we mourn in their midst, knowing that they are euphoric—at least for the moment?

How do we decide if we can still call this place our home while feeling orphaned by its collective decision? How do we as parents and grandparents responsibly care for our children and grandchildren: do we stay and fight to somehow mitigate the damage to this nation—or do we, with the limited time we have here, abandon a place that feels like it has abandoned us and live the rest of our lives in a culture that better aligns with our hearts?

How do we as people of faith, make any sense of our present circumstances while trying to hold onto any hope of belief in a higher power whose character is good and who is defined by love?

Can we still believe that love wins the war when it has certainly lost a critical battle here?

Standing, sitting (or perhaps laying in a fetal position) at the intersection of existential constitutional, emotional, and relational crises, any of which on their own would level us, how do we decide where to go or how to move on?

And above all, what do we do, when despite our age and wisdom and intellect and competency and experience, we are left with a single answer to every one of these questions: I don’t know.

The way out of these questions, ironically starts is with two more questions.

The first question, despite how dark or hopeless things feel is, what do I still know to be true?

You may have fewer answers than you might have had to that question ten days ago, and It may not seem like there is much right now—but what do I still know to be true?

What do I still know to be true about what matters to me—my values? Do I still believe empathy is the better path? Do I still believe that diversity makes us better? Do I still believe that equity is worth fighting for?

What do I still know to be true about the kind of world I’d like to spend the rest of my days building—my dreams? When I think of the future, even a few days into it, what would that place look like and how might I step slowly back into that dream or begin a new one?

What I do I still know to be true about the kind of people I want to surround myself with—my community? Whether by blood or by choice, do I still want to be around those who care too much instead of those who care too little?

Because even though there is so much you don’t know right now, you actually do know quite a bit. Your values and dreams and desire for community are still likely really clear to you.

So, that first question in matters of values and vision and relationships is—what do I still know to be true.

The second question is: Is my heart still beating?

It may be broken and bleeding and crushed beneath all the what-might-have-beens and the worst-case scenarios, but is it still beating? Because if it is (and if it isn’t you have other more pressing concerns than finishing this), but if it is and you are still breathing, then you still have work to do and life to live and decisions to make and options in front of you. That doesn’t mean the way forward will be easy or clear, it just means that there is a way forward because time is still ticking and so is your heart.

Well, we’re here in this beautiful mess and we still don’t know.

And when you don’t know what to do, you have to begin with who you are. You start with the grief, you begin with the burden, and you sit with that sorrow and that despair and that anger, until you find the smallest place to move.

So, I asked you what you still know to be true, and I asked if you’re still alive, and I have one more question: why did you work and canvass and hope and vote the way you did? Why did you spend the last one hundred days doing what you were doing?

Because whatever propelled you into the voting booth needs to push you to your feet today.

Regardless of the election outcome, you’re still surrounded by systemic ills and relational fracture and national discord.

You’ve still seen every grotesque reality that’s been uncovered over the past ten years.

You’re still walking shoulder to shoulder with weary, wounded human beings who are looking for compassionate people to see their suffering and to move toward them.

You still have a specific front row seat to a place filled with terrors and traumas, and you are the only one with your unprecedented ability to be what that world needs.

I would argue that your why hasn’t changed, you’re just (we’re all just) going to discover that what and the how again (and we will).

In the meantime, focus on what is true, on who you are, and on the pounding in the center of your chest that confirms that you’re not finished yet.

John Pavlovitz

John Pavlovitz

John Pavlovitz is a writer, pastor, and activist from Wake Forest, North Carolina. A 25-year veteran in the trenches of local church ministry, John is committed to equality, diversity, and justice—both inside and outside faith communities. When not actively working for a more compassionate planet, John enjoys spending time with his family, exercising, cooking, and having time in nature. He is the author of A Bigger Table, Hope and Other Superpowers, Low, and Stuff That Needs to Be Said.

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