by By Javan Kilele
Hope is powerful. Sometimes, it is all we have. It is the fragile thread that keeps us tethered when life threatens to unravel. Yet, it is also the most resilient force we possess, one that defies logic, circumstance, and even our own doubts.
But what happens when hope itself seems impossible; when the weight of reality crushes even the smallest expectation?
I think about the world around me. Corruption festers in every new government as if it were a rite of passage. Morality, once a binding force in society, now seems like a fading memory. Schools burn, children rebel, marriages break, people struggle, economies tumble, and justice feels more like an illusion than a right. And then there are the personal battles — the silent wars waged within. Think about delayed dreams. Shattered expectations. And the painful realization that some things we hope for may never come to pass.
In moments like these, it is easy to wonder if hope is just an illusion or a beautifully crafted lie we tell ourselves to keep going. I once read the heartbreaking story of Tiffany Toribio, a mother who suffocated her three-year-old son out of sheer hopelessness. It is the kind of tragedy that makes you pause, not just in horror but in recognition that hopelessness is dangerous. It suffocates the soul before it ever claims the body. It turns rational people into shadows of themselves, capable of things they never imagined.
I think about several popular Kenyan journalists who once had thriving careers but now find themselves living in the streets or drowning in depression and drug addiction. How does someone fall that far? And more importantly, how do they climb back?
Then there are stories that make me pause for a different reason. Stories that remind me that hope is not just about seeing the light at the end of the tunnel but about believing in the light even when you cannot see it. In 2010, an earthquake struck Haiti, burying thousands beneath rubble. For 11 days, Wismond Exantus lay trapped under the ruins of a hotel grocery store. No food. No certainty. Just silence. And yet, when he was finally pulled out alive, his first words were about finding a church to give thanks. He had spent those 11 days praying, reciting psalms, and resting in the conviction that someone would come for him.
I wonder what kind of faith it takes to hope against all hope. Abraham, an old man with a barren wife, was told he would father nations. The promise seemed laughable. And, in fact, he and Sarah did laugh. Because who wouldn’t? But still, somehow, he believed. Not because the circumstances made sense but because He knew the God who made the promise. He faced the facts, acknowledged the impossibilities, and still held onto the absurdity of hope.
Romans 4:18 says, “Against all hope, Abraham in hope believed and so became the father of many nations.” He had every reason to let go. His body was as good as dead. Sarah’s womb was lifeless. Yet he did not waver in unbelief. Instead, “he was fully persuaded that God had power to do what he had promised” (Romans 4:21).
I wrestle with this kind of faith. The kind that does not waver even when every logical reason for believing has been stripped away. The kind that grows stronger, not weaker, under the weight of uncertainty. I think about the moments in my life when I have felt the pull toward despair, when trusting felt foolish and waiting felt unbearable. What does it mean to stand firm when everything around me suggests it is time to let go?
Something, someone greater
Perhaps hope is not about pretending everything will work out as we wish. Perhaps it is about believing that, even if it does not, there is still something beyond what we can see. Maybe hope is not found in the certainty of outcomes but in the certainty of something greater than ourselves.
And so, even when doubt creeps in, when the world gives me every reason to stop believing, I choose hope. Not because I always feel it but because sometimes, it is all I have. And I would rather hold onto a thread of hope than be swallowed by the weight of despair.
But hope is only as strong as the foundation it rests on. True hope is not in people, systems, or even the promises themselves. It is in a person; Jesus Christ. He is the only hope that does not fade, does not disappoint, and does not fail. When all else is uncertain, He remains the anchor for the soul, firm and secure (Hebrews 6:19). He is the One who carries us when our strength is gone, who breathes life into dead things, and who reminds us that no situation is beyond redemption.
So, when I choose hope, I am really choosing Him.
