Hope does not always arrive gently. Sometimes it startles us. It crashes into the familiar rhythm of loss and says, not yet. Naomi and Ruth stand in the dust of what used to be a home, a family, and a sense of future. Nothing about their situation looks redeemable. Yet out of that desolate place, something unexpected stirs: loyalty, love, and the faint glimmer of possibility.
Ruth’s decision to stay—“Where you go, I will go”—is not born of optimism. It is born of a stubborn, bewildering kind of hope. The kind that does not erase grief but insists that God’s story is not finished. Ruth cannot see Bethlehem yet. She can only see Naomi’s weary face and decide that love itself is reason enough to keep walking.
That is the wonder of Advent hope. It is not the cheer that comes after things work out. It is the courage that rises before they do. It is the refusal to let despair have the final word. Sometimes it looks like showing up beside someone who is hurting. Sometimes it looks like starting again when you swore you were done. And sometimes, like Ruth, it looks like trusting that faithfulness will lead you somewhere you cannot yet imagine.
“Out of the blue” moments—those flashes of grace that break through our predictability—are not accidents. They are glimpses of the divine pattern: light breaking in where we least expect it. As Advent begins, we prepare not by controlling outcomes but by opening our eyes to wonder. Hope is not an escape from reality; it is an embrace of mystery.
Prayer: God of the unexpected, startle us with your hope. In the places that feel empty or finished, awaken the courage to love again. Teach us to recognize your light breaking in—out of the blue and into our hearts. Amen.
Greg Clark lives in Louisville, where he starts most mornings with a walk, a cup of tea, and Morning Edition in his earbuds. A lifelong Beatles fan, he is reminded with each Advent that “Here Comes the Sun” is more than a lyric—it is a quiet promise that light returns.