The thrill of hope. Plus: behind scenes on my book
A song, a man, a poem, an invite
In recent years, the haunting reverence of the song O Holy Night has lingered long beyond the last mince pie of the season.
In that song, these bright lines: A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices […] His law is love and His Gospel is Peace
These lines feel like waves of truth that have been dancing through my soul these past few weeks, like solar winds dancing through the atmosphere until they conjure the northern lights. Waves from where? Perhaps from the place before time, before existence; the place that chose to create something rather than nothing, a something that is held together through such unlikely physics and love.
I am trying to find a way to write about love and hope that doesn’t feel cliched, rose-tinted, hard to get hold of. I am working on it. But what I know is that hope, real hope, does feel thrilling. Anything that gets in its way like cynicism or hate feels so life-draining, even offensive. Anything that says, light is not worth paying attention to, or that says dark is joy and light is burden.
That is not to say we should not face the dark. We must face the dark I think, to better recognise it, bring it into the light, reduce its power. But lingering there, thinking that it is the only way, that it is inevitable, reduces our own power to act — or even be a reason not to act. Because what’s the point?
To face the dark but live in the light is to feel in a permanent state of tension. I want to know how to sing songs of hope today, even from within that tension, in the world as it is. O Holy Night says that hope is a thrill. What a way to see hope!
…'til He appeared and the soul felt its worth
A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn…
I long for holiness. Increasingly so. It feels like existence clarified, something set apart, mysterious and yet built into the universe. I also long for hope. The song seems to say that holiness can be found in the night, that light can be found in the dark. That a weary world can rejoice.
Between Christmas and the new year I like to buy a space calendar. Each month features an image taken by the Hubble telescope. It acts as a reminder that awe is possible daily, perhaps even that holiness is the fabric of things.
I saw a photo of Dr Hussam Abu Safia — a Palestinian doctor, director of Kamal Adwan Hospital, the last major health facility operational in northern Gaza — facing an Israeli tank that rolled towards him. Even after everything: his son being killed, injury, mourning, despair, too many patients to care for. Even after all this, he faced his oppressors. He was abducted, is being detained, and likely knows his fate.
…truly He taught us to love one another;
His law is love and His Gospel is Peace
Chains shall He break, for the slave is our brother
And in His name, all oppression shall cease…
He knew perhaps that darkness can still hold holiness and that sometimes, when all we see is dark, then maybe it’s up to us to distill that holiness — that wholeness. That we can be the bringers of wholeness even amidst brokenness. That the only thing to do sometimes is to love one another, to remove chains in the ways that we can, to live like one day all oppression really will cease.
The photo and news made my throat catch, my soul weep, my despair flare up. This Palestinian man who loved and healed the way he knew how, despite everything and despite there being little chance of his survival. An old story, a current story, but the thrill of hope says it does not have to be a future story.
For more on hope inspired by Thomas Hardy’s poem The Darkling Thrush, you might like this post from last year. From it:
“…this dark corner of the year, I look to the darkling thrushes. Sometimes it seems that the faceless forces of capitalism (with which we are all entangled in one way or another) would rather we believe that we are isolated, surrounded by hopelessness, and in need of their salvation to function. In need of their stuff, their messaging, their solutions. But the thrushes, the helpers, remind me that it is always each other we need, even when that feels difficult. They remind me that it is possible to fling our souls — even when we feel frail, even when we doubt, even when we might not realise we’re doing it — and in doing so, to write a new song onto terrestrial things.”
I’m writing a book! If you’d like behind-the-scenes insights, previews, the chance to input, ask questions, and to journey with me towards publication, I’d love to have you along for the ride. Plus, if there’s interest, I’d love to host write-alongs and read-alongs in time. I’m currently offering a discount on paid subscribers. You can access that below. Paid subscriptions are not meant to be a barrier — just a way to support my work, find a quieter corner of the internet, and keep some privacy. If the cost is a barrier, just get in touch. And if you already choose to support me this way — thank you. I am so grateful.
Thank you for being here. May 2025 be built with hope and brightness.
Love - always,
Elizabeth