I dropped more hints on my parents than I had ever dropped for anything, ever. Even more than the Izod shirts I would ask for in the years to follow. And trust me people, I wanted those little alligators. Or crocodiles...whatever. There was nothing as thrilling as the anticipation for Christmas morning as I would await the nylon awesomeness that would soon adorn my legs.
Christmas morning came and went. No parachute pants. That morning I received a one-way ticket to Uncool-ville.
Until my Mom told me that Christmas wasn't technically over. We still had the trip to my grandparents later in the week. Now don't get me wrong, I loved my Grandparents. Awesome sugar cereal? Check. Candy handouts in the middle of church? Check. They were great. But reality check here people, I'd be shocked if they knew anything about these pants. I mean come on.
Cue the emminent crushing of my hopes.
I waited patiently for my turn. The box was shaped like your typical "clothing" present. Could it be? No. No way. Narrow, flat, and rectangle, the box headed my way. A few rips...and there they were.
I heard angels sing. Seriously.
I tried them on. One size too small. I didn't care. They were mine...and I wore them all year long. I may have even slept in them.
Here's the thing. Hope is an anchor. But we often treat it like a feather on a breeze...or a pair of parachute pants.
Hope comes alive when it finds a place where it can sink deep and permeate our lives everyday. Cast it overboard and hang on tight.
http://bible.us/Rom8.23.CEV-EN
