AfterWords | A Thrill of Hope

A short read
by Kim Ali

I’ve been at The Parish for almost a year, and, like so many others, I’ve found it to be a resting place­—a space that both challenges and heals. One of the most profound shifts I’ve experienced here began during the Lenten season, when I encountered something unexpected: a confession of belovedness. Before confessing sin as a congregation, we confessed that we are first beloved of God. Hearing those words in the service, I was overcome with emotion, wanting to believe they were true but wrestling against years of negative belief systems.

My faith journey began with a theology that insisted I see myself—and everyone else—as fundamentally sinful, marked by failure and alienation from God. Holiness, I was taught, demanded separation. God’s holiness required distance from sinners like me. In that space of fear, certainty became my lifeline. Certainty about doctrine, about who was saved and who was lost, gave me a sense of control amidst the chaos. It felt solid, unshakable, a sure foundation.

But over time, I discovered that this kind of certainty isn’t a foundation; it’s a cage. It traps us in a transactional relationship with God, where love is earned and belonging is conditional.

When I made it my goal to be theologically right—to have all the answers—I missed the deeper invitation: to be truly loved.

The confession of belovedness was a paradigm shift. It whispered a truth I wasn’t ready for: that God’s first and enduring posture toward me is love. Not disappointment. Not anger. Love.

This was the beginning of my Advent journey.

A Season of Waiting

The past two years have been some of the hardest in my life. Leaving a ministry job felt like the ground beneath me had given way. The loss was both emotionally devastating and financially overwhelming for my family of six.

At first, my husband and I held onto hope that I’d find another job quickly. But as the months stretched on and rejection emails piled up, that hope began to erode, giving way to panic. The fast-paced life to which I was accustomed slowed to an almost unbearable crawl, leaving me face-to-face with the stillness I had long avoided. Yet, in the unsettling quiet, I began to sense an invitation—a gentle nudge from the Spirit.

It wasn’t an invitation to fix or strive, but to be. To take long walks in the woods, to sit in silence, to breathe prayers that had no words. It was a time of waiting, and though it felt like suffering, it also became a season of unexpected communion. In those quiet moments, I began to feel that God wasn’t asking me to prove myself but simply trust—to rest in the assurance that even in the waiting, I was not forgotten.

Waiting, as we all know, is its own kind of suffering. Advent reminds us of this. It calls us to sit with the ache of our longings—the longing to be made whole, to see our needs met, for the weight of suffering to lift. Yet, in the tension of waiting, there is also room for hope.

Throughout the year, I found myself buoyed by the unexpected kindness of others. Friends who made space for my grief and fear—grieving what had been and what was yet uncertain—became my anchors. Perfectly timed cards arrived in the mail. Voicemail messages and coffee invitations came when I needed them the most. Looking back, I see how God was reshaping my understanding of faith. What once revolved around the security of having the “right answers” was giving way to something deeper: faith as relationship, rooted in presence, openness, and love.

In the waiting, I was learning to trust that God’s faithfulness is not transactional but relational—a God who meets us not in our certainties but in our uncertainties, not in our striving but in our surrender.

A year later, in an unexpected turn, the job offer I had been longing for finally arrived. Relief washed over me. Yet, even in that moment of resolution, I sensed that God wasn’t finished revealing the depths of his presence. This wasn’t just about a job; it was about something much more profound: the quiet, unshakable reality of his withness through it all.

An Embodied Joy

The day I received the job offer, I couldn’t wait to share the news. When my teenage son got home from school, I told him, expecting a simple, “Congrats.” But his reaction took me completely by surprise. His face lit up, and before I could say another word, he wrapped me in a bear hug, lifted me off the ground, and spun me around the room. In my shock, all I could hear was his voice in my ear: “I’m so proud of you.”

In that moment, I experienced a joy that was unguarded and lavish—one that didn’t need earning, proving, or striving. The long months of waiting felt worth it in that one moment of being seen and celebrated simply for who I was to my son.

Advent

The coming of Christ isn’t just about saving us from sin; it’s about revealing God’s heart—a heart that looks on us with lavish delight. This love transforms how we see ourselves, not as inherently flawed or rejected, but as people cherished by a God who delights in dwelling with us, as one of us. To confess our belovedness in Advent is to step into God’s grand story of redemption, a story that draws us into the hope, peace and joy of his kingdom. No matter where we are in our waiting, we’re invited to embrace a God who lifts us up, spins us around in joy, and says, “You are loved. I’m with you.”