My brother-in-law, Greg, passed away in 2021 at the age of fifty. He died from brain cancer, leaving behind his wife (my sister), Deanna, their two young sons, and many who loved him. I remember learning of Greg’s tumor. After a sudden bout of vision issues, Greg underwent an emergency MRI the evening before Thanksgiving, revealing a mass. On Thanksgiving day, Greg and Deanna met with the neurosurgeon. While the doctors detailed a couple of possibilities, the mass was likely glioblastoma. As Greg and Deanna conveyed the news, it felt like a sick joke: receiving something so challenging on Thanksgiving. How were we supposed to be thankful in the face of such pain?

 

When life is smooth, being hopeful is not very difficult, but even in our challenges, we can choose hope. Romans 12:12 states, “Rejoice in hope, endure in affliction, persevere in prayer.”

 

We tend to idealize the act of hoping: it’s a positive character trait; it’s tidy; it’s clean and nice.

 

We often fail to recognize that hope is messy. It’s messy because life is messy. If we have any illusions to the contrary, we need only look at Jesus’ life. It was filled with struggle, ending in a bloody mess. Yet, Jesus’ hope was always evident, particularly in His agony. As He prayed in the garden, He said, “‘Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me; yet, not as I will, but as you will” (Matthew 26:39). Later, He prayed, “Your will be done” (Matthew 26:42).

 

You might question how these statements express hope.

 

The Catechism provides a definition: “Hope is the theological virtue by which we desire the kingdom of heaven and eternal life as our happiness, placing our trust in Christ’s promises and relying not on our own strength, but on the help of the grace of the Holy Spirit” (CCC 1817). During His agony, Jesus is sorrowful, but He places hope and trust in His Father.  This hope ultimately leads Jesus to the cross. Before His Passion, Jesus explains the conditions of discipleship, “‘Whoever wishes to come after me must deny himself, take up his cross, and follow me’” (Matthew 16:24). Saint Paul, in his letter to the Romans, doesn’t mince words. Rejoice. Endure. Persevere. Set your eyes on what is ahead.

 

What is ahead?

 

In his apostolic letter, Salvifici Doloris (“Redemptive Suffering”), Pope Saint John Paul II wrote, “As a result of Christ’s salvific work, man exists on earth with the hope of eternal life and holiness. And even though the victory over sin and death achieved by Christ in his Cross and Resurrection does not abolish temporal suffering from human life… it nevertheless throws a new light upon this dimension and upon every suffering: the light of salvation” (Salvifici Doloris 15). Jesus’ light penetrates the darkness of our sin and pain, redeeming us.

 

Soon after his diagnosis, Greg said he wasn’t afraid to die. Instead, he chose hope, living the fullness of life.

 

Greg passed away on May 6, 2021. He may not have been healed in his earthly life, but I am confident our prayers were answered in his spiritual healing. He received the Sacraments often over his final months, filling him with the graces to rejoice in hope. Soon after his death, I wrote a letter to Greg. Below is an excerpt:

 

“Your sickness allowed me to see parts of you that made me admire you even more. How could you be so graceful in the face of uncertainty? How could you still make us all laugh amidst pain? How could your humility grow during the struggle? How could your compassion burst forth ever more when you were dealing with so much yourself? How could you love so intensely? How could you fight so bravely? And you answered those questions every chance you got – you were thankful in the midst of the storm and took every chance you got to thank God and those around you.”

 

Greg showed me I could choose hope – hope that rises triumphantly on blood-stained, whip-torn shoulders; hope that rises like the corner of Greg’s mouth when you’d say something goofy; hope that rises from the dead.