Yesterday, I turned 42. Other than the blast furnace heat levels we have here in Phoenix, nothing special happened (on second thought, there’s nothing special about the heat–just the way it is). I still got up, bleary-eyed, in search of coffee, and muddled through.
I mean, come on, Douglas Adams, I thought 42 was the “ultimate answer to the question of the meaning of life, the universe, and everything.” I think you lied, because I didn’t wake with Bruce Almighty-like powers; on the other hand, no one was trying to bulldoze my house to put in a bypass. And the planet is still here.
So at least that’s a win!
I’ve gone there ahead of you, and found… nothing. That’s right: nothing.
I’ve nothing to report. Guess you can cross this one off your list. Or not–it’s your list.
You know what? Sorry to be such a bubble-burster, but life is full of such disappointments. You either get over them, or you drown your sorrows in a Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters.
That’s right: life is hard, we muddle through, and then we die.
What a bummer!
But you know what? That’s not the whole story. The truth is that we’re not alone, and we’re not without hope.
Because Jesus is a “hoopy frood”–truly, the only one–who knows where His shroud (again, the only one–cause the one we’ve got is a fake) is.
So–while there is nothing special about 42–nevertheless, we’re special–I’m special–because Jesus lived, died, and ever lives to make intercession for us.
And in the midst of this often hard life, you can stake all of your hope on that. I promise.
Thanks for reading! If you wouldn’t mind: where does your hope come from?