Pursuing Hope

I have studied "hope" this week, in an effort to bolster my moderately inchoate knowledge of such an important subject. Last weekend I was desperate of hope, and (oddly) remembered my first day of junior high school.

Entering the vaulted ceilings of our cement gym, with barren basketball hoops and mini-bleachers, I made a promise to myself. I committed to never speak ill, nor solicit or advertise gossip of any person. As a tall blonde with red and blue rubber bands on my braces, I was true to my self-promise through my graduation day of high school. Situations would arise, but my stalor persisted. Referencing this experience many months ago, I decided to apply the learned application to the practice of hope. This weekend I was reminded of my new habit.

Pursuing hope seems the sylar journey of sages, a forgotten ether of chivalry or foolishness, but I've found it most fulfilling. Indeed, Paul tells us "And we desire that every one of you do shew the same diligence to the full assurance of hope unto the end (Hebrew 6:11)." I try to consciously make an effort to choose hope when presented with despair.

The impact of above determination has transformed an aspect of my faith- crosses can be mastered with the accompaniment of the Spirit of the Lord. My Saviour is the master of miracles, and the facilitator of deliverance. We can be delivered from despair when we practice hope. President Utchdorf, in his General Conference address entitled The Infinite Power of Hope, made the following statement,

"Hope is a gift of the Spirit. It is a hope that through the Atonement of Jesus Christ and the power of His Resurrection, we shall be raised unto life eternal and this because of our faith in the Savior. This kind of hope is both a principle of promise as well as a commandment, and, as with all commandments, we have the responsibility to make it an active part of our lives and overcome the temptation to lose hope."

The following is a dandy of a poem,

HOPE

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
-Emily Dickinson

Chile, Cementerio General de Santiago.