Faith Before the Rain, Hope Before the Stars

This year has been called the Jubilee Year of Hope. It’s a beautiful phrase, but hope often sounds more poetic than practical. What does it really mean to be pilgrims of hope, especially when life feels uncertain, heavy, or slow to change?

At Mass, the priest shared two stories that offered a simple but moving answer.

The first was about Abraham. God called him to leave everything behind, to walk into the unknown. And Abraham went. Not because he saw the end clearly, but because he trusted the One who called him.

We all know the famous part, God’s promise that his descendants would be as many as the stars. But the priest pointed out something that’s easy to miss. God told Abraham this before the stars were visible. The sun was still up. There was no sky full of light to count. No sign to hold on to.

And still, Abraham believed. That’s what real hope looks like. Trusting even when the stars haven’t come out yet. Trusting they will appear, even when the sky is still bright.

The second story came from the priest’s friend, who grew up in a rural village in Africa. There, they only had rain for four months in a year. During those months, they would celebrate and eat well. But as the dry season set in, food slowly ran out. Meals became smaller. Some days, there was barely anything.

One day, when he was still a boy, the priest’s friend found a bag of grain in the barn. Excited, he ran to tell his father that his mother could now bake bread again. They could finally have a good meal.

But his father didn’t celebrate. He paused, and his face changed. As much as he wanted to share in his son’s joy, he knew what was at stake. Gently, and with a heavy heart, he said, “Those grains are for planting when the rain returns. They’re not for eating. They’re for the next harvest.”

It broke his heart to disappoint his hungry child. But even more, it broke him to choose hunger for today in the hope of feeding his family tomorrow. Still, he made that choice. Because he believed. He believed the rain would come. That the soil would open. That life would rise again.

Imagine what it takes to walk out onto dry, cracked earth, your children tired and thin behind you, and throw your last bag of grain into the ground. Not knowing exactly when the rain will come. Not knowing what tomorrow will bring. But doing it anyway. Not because the signs are good, but because your heart still believes.

That’s hope too. Quiet. Costly. Brave.

Each of us carries our own version of hope. Some of us are waiting for healing. Others are grieving someone they love. Some are hoping to meet someone they can share life with. Some are praying for a second chance, or for a broken relationship to be made whole again. Some are waiting for a job. Some are holding on through a business that just won’t take off. Some are hoping for peace in the home. Some are praying simply to feel like themselves again.

And some of us are just trying to get through the day.

Hope doesn’t always look grand or powerful. Sometimes, it looks like getting up again when it feels pointless. Sometimes, it looks like saving seed instead of eating it. Sometimes, it looks like throwing the last of what you have into dry soil, trusting that God will do something with it. And sometimes, it looks like kneeling in quiet prayer, placing your cares, your fears, your longing at the foot of the Cross, not with certainty, but with trust that Jesus hears, and holds, every part of it.

God is faithful. It may not be on our time, or on our terms, but His promise stands.

He was faithful to Abraham.

He was present with that father in Africa.

And He walks with us, too, quietly, patiently, with hands full of promise.

So we keep walking. We keep planting. We keep trusting. Not because we see the stars, but because we know who spoke the promise.

We are pilgrims of hope (BV).