Hope in Midst of Sorrow
By Caitlin Hamm
This week’s word is hope. It’s a word that carries so much power, and I am going to talk about it—but first, I need to share about a moment I had last Sunday (the morning of the fire).
You’ve probably heard me talk about coming down the hill and seeing the barn on fire. It was devastating. I stood there in the farmhouse driveway, staring at the destruction, thinking, “That’s my life. That’s where I found joy and happiness, where I’ve healed, where I poured my blood, sweat, and tears. And now it’s gone.” Over and over, I said, “Lord, it’s gone. What am I going to do?”
In that moment of anguish, when everything felt lost and hopeless, I heard a still, small voice say: “Don’t give in. I’m with you. You belong to me.” It was as if God Himself reached into my despair to remind me that my life, my identity, my joy—it isn’t tied to a building or any earthly thing. As meaningful as that barn was, it wasn’t the source of my hope, joy, or identity.
The truth is those things comes from the Lord. He grieves when I grieve, and He rejoices when I rejoice. And when I stop to notice the small moments of joy, He’s there, celebrating with me.
It was then that I began to understand how easy it is to let sorrow take over the story. It’s like stopping in the middle of a book because the chapter in the middle is too difficult to read. If we stop there, we miss the ending. We miss the hope, the blessings, and the joy waiting in the chapters ahead.
Hope doesn’t mean life is free from sorrow or struggles— it’s the promise that those moments won’t last forever. Hope is the belief that joy is still possible, that the story isn’t over just because the chapter is hard.
If I had stayed stuck in the sorrow of watching the barn burn—the place that was my home for the last three years—I would have missed the blessings that followed.
I would have missed the joy and encouragement of seeing the Soldier’s Cross still standing, as a symbol of resilience and faith. I would have missed the camaraderie—as we came together with a spirit of “How can I help?”, “Let me step in.”, “Let me comfort you”
I would have missed the quiet, tender moments of joy: like the cats head-butting me as if to say, “We’re still here, where is our food?” or the horses offering their silent comfort. Hope kept me moving forward, helping me to see beyond the ashes.
Yes, there are moments of grief and loss, but hope reminds us that those moments don’t define the story. Psalm 30 tells us: “Weeping may endure for a night, but joy comes in the morning.” Hope carries us through the night, anchoring us in the promise of morning. It whispers that the pain is temporary, but the blessings to come are eternal.
Hope is what stops us from closing the book too soon. It gives us the courage to turn the page, to believe that there’s joy waiting in the chapters ahead—even when we can’t see it yet.
So I encourage you, don’t get stuck. Feel your feelings—grieve, cry, be angry, and even shout if you need to. But don’t let the feelings keep you stuck in the middle of the story. Don’t let the hard chapters convince you that the story isn’t worth finishing.
Because beyond sorrow, there’s joy. Beyond the pain, there’s healing. And beyond the loss, there’s hope—a hope that is steadfast, unshakable, and rooted in the truth of who God is.
When we lift our eyes, even through tears, and choose to sing praise, our hearts begin to shift. Hope grows stronger. Joy begins to rise. And the promise of rebuilding—and restoration—becomes clear.
