Chasing Hope

I wouldn’t say that I’ve been tossing and turning and that’s how I ended up feeling the need to get out of bed. It’s deeper than that. Something is pulling me out of my bed. A faint call from deep within me, waking me out of my half-asleep state.

I sit up and briefly glance at my new alarm clock I still haven’t gotten around to setting yet. It’s about 3 AM. My eyes water, but my mind and body are now wide awake. I’m not sure if I’m working on autopilot, or that magnet inside of me is telling me what to do, but I find myself getting up as quietly as I can and creeping across the stone bedroom I now call home. Carefully I make my way past my sleeping dorm mates, tiptoeing so as not to disturb each of their still forms.

I grab my favorite pair of American Eagle jeans and a warm comfy sweatshirt from my closet and creep into the bathroom to change into them. After I’m changed, I slip quietly out the door and begin to descend the staircase.

Now, I know what you’re thinking.

What the heck is she doing? It’s three AM, is she crazy?

Simple answer: Maybe.

But to be honest, I don’t know why I’m going somewhere. I just know I have to go there.

Maybe I’m dreaming.

Maybe I’m half-asleep and sleepwalking or something. I don’t know.

But I need to follow that pull.

That pull, whatever it is, leads me down the dark stone staircase and into the main hall of my new school within a few minutes. I blink at the dark, my eyes still not wanting to adjust and keep up with the rest of my body.

A cold breeze seems to blow right through me as if I’m a ghost. I’m seriously wishing my jeans didn’t have so many fashionable rips right now.

I find myself in the main hall, noticing lots of tapestries hanging on the walls that I didn’t see before when Tucker and I toured the school.

Only now, they’re illuminated by the light from the moon which pours in through the huge windows that are implanted a hundred feet up in the walls.

I get that feeling again as if I’m in the wrong time in history. It’s as if the entire setting around me is screaming at me to get out because I belong a thousand years in the future.

There goes my imagination again.

Maybe I don’t belong in another time, but another place. A second chill sends shivers down my spine, but I continue to walk wherever it is my feet are taking me.

I turn down ten more hallways, seriously wishing I’d thrown on another layer underneath my sweatshirt, when I come upon two doors.

Two humongous wooden doors. Doors I know. Doors I fear.

And then I hear it.

It’s faint at first but... someone is playing piano in there.

I can’t help it. I have to know who that is. I reach for the cold metal door handle and pull the door open just a crack, using all my willpower to hope the old door doesn’t squeak and give me away.

Inside sits a man I’m still not sure about.

Mr. D, my music teacher and a puzzle of a man, sits alone on that bench with a single overhead light in the huge room shining right onto him.

It looks as if he’s the only person in existence, darkness enveloping the rest of the world and leaving only him. The darkness envelops me as well, and I welcome its presence.

I watch in awe and listen, taking in every single note. His playing is magnificent, no doubt about that.

It's beautiful.

It’s horrible.

And I can’t turn away.

I listen as he brings me though every single emotion I’ve ever felt in my life. I watch him feel them too as he plays.

Joy.

Sadness.

Anger.

Hope.

He finishes in the middle of a piece and it almost makes my heart drop. I want him to keep going, I want more.

His face is unreadable from where I stand as he stands up from the bench and walks over to a back door on the other end of the classroom.

He shuts the light off and leaves.

Any other person would probably have left at this point, but for some reason I don’t.

I still find myself wanting more. I walk into the dark room, my eyes still adjusting after having looked at the light for so long. I stumble a few times, but once I make it to the piano I know exactly where I am.

I need to play.

But I promised myself I would never return to music, not after losing Mom. She was light and life, all that music represents to me. She was.

Was, was, was… never will be again.

Still, I let my long delicate fingers lightly run over the ivory keys, tingling with something. Anticipation? Angst?

Probably both.

I made you for this, you know?

The thought pops into my mind. Sometimes that happens, even when I’m not in the mindset of talking to God, He speaks.

I’m still a little drowsy so I hardly consider it.

Then why does it hurt so much?

I can’t tell if I’m having a conversation with God, or if I’m just talking to myself and my own crazy thoughts at this point.

I wait.

No answer.

Then a word starts to reverberate through my mind. Practice.

The same frustrating thing that Mr. D told me as I struggled to even sit on this bench not 24 hours ago.

Anger bubbles up inside of me,

You want me to practice? Fine. I’ll practice.

I’m not sure who I’m talking to. Mr. D or God, my music teacher or my creator, although I can’t really blame either for how I feel at the moment.

I hesitate, but then start to play. Not really aware of what songs, just knowing that they are an extension of my own feelings. Feelings that have been held in for far too long. The dam inside my heart breaks, relief and pain flowing out of every note.

Heavy. Hard. Grief. Loneliness. Desperation.

I miss my life. I miss home. I miss my brother, the only family I truly have left.

Why? Why am I here?

I stop playing and rest my head on the keys. Hot tears start flowing and I don’t stop them, they run right off of my face and onto the piano.

“What’s the point?” I say aloud to myself in the colossal and dark room, my voice cracking in the process.

A new voice echoes through my mind, the voice I miss the most. A memory floating back to me amidst my turmoil.

Mom caresses my face, wiping residual tears away from when she found me crying about missing Dad at only eleven years old. “Sweet girl, I know this is hard, and there is nothing good about your father leaving us,”

A sob from my small frame.

“But Kora, you have to remember that God is always with us. His book says that He works all things together for the good of those who love him. And I know I sure love Him, and I can see in your heart that you love Him too.”

“B-But how can He make this good?” I was so confused then, as I am now.

“We may not know on this side of eternity, but you have to hold onto hope. Can you do that for me? Hope?”

I don’t remember my response then, I was probably too young to know what she was asking of me. I do still believe in God despite my troubles, and I’m thankful to Him everyday for what He has given me. I struggle more with what He has taken away.

Hope

The word is shouted in my mind once more. Maybe that’s what I came down here searching for, something to cling to amidst the storm.

Despite my tears and my pain I force myself to look towards the sky,

“I trust you. I– I’ll try to hope.”

I don’t feel an immediate sense of peace like I sometimes do after giving things to God. The air still grows chill around me, and the light that seeps through the cracks in these old walls is hardly enough for me to feel at ease.

But I know what’s true, I think I always did. I just needed a little reminder, so I silently thank God for waking me up at three in the morning to conquer one of my greatest fears. Not just making music again, but trusting Him.