Hope waiting to be opened.

If I were sitting across the table from you...

...I'd probably pour us a cup of coffee, sigh, and take a deep breath before telling you how our family's own prodigal journey began.

I don't trust this story with just anyone. There are parts of it, in fact, that I will probably never share aloud.

In 2020, we found ourselves on the painful road of loving a wayward child as he chose a path of substance abuse.

After the initial shock and utter disbelief wore off, reality slowly began to settle in. We were learning to live in a new normal that wasn't anything close to normal.

This wasn't something we could fix with a lecture, discipline, or even a treatment program. In fact, my husband and I couldn't fix anything at all. We felt helpless. And despite our deep faith in God, there were plenty of times we felt hopeless too.

There were days I couldn't even get out of bed.

Other days, my faith felt vibrant and strong.

Then the next day, another heartbreaking discovery would send me right back to the floor of my closet, sobbing into the carpet and wishing I could simply disappear. The roller coaster of emotions kept us in constant turmoil.

Some days, in my loneliness, I simply needed someone who had walked this road before me to remind me that I wasn't crazy, I wasn't failing, and I wasn't alone.

Jesus carried me through every part of it.

One of the ways He did was through the faithful encouragement of people who had been there before me. They reminded me to keep praying, to keep hoping, and to trust that God was still writing a story I couldn't yet see.

Over time, something else happened too.

God began changing me.

My hope slowly became less dependent on what my child was doing and more rooted in who God is.

That doesn't mean I never feel fear or heartache anymore.

That doesn't mean our story is over or tied up neatly with a bow. We're still walking it.

It means fear no longer gets the final word.

Jesus does.

That's why Hope Notes exists.

I created it so that each month another parent could open an envelope and remember:

Someone understands.

God has not forgotten your child.

You are not alone.

Can I just say that one more time?

You are not forgotten.

Your child is not forgotten.

You are not alone.

And someone does understand.

So, in my mind, as we're finishing up that first cup of coffee together, with so much more of my story still to share, I would love to walk with you awhile through yours.

And until hope feels a little easier to hold again, maybe you can borrow a little of mine.