Dear Son,

I know why you’re scared to hope.

It’s not because you’re weak.
It’s not because you’ve given up.
It’s because you remember what it felt like the last time—
when you opened your heart…
and it didn’t go the way you thought.

You trusted.
You prayed.

You believed.
And then the door closed.
The person left.
The dream died.

And something in you quietly said: “I’m done.”

Maybe not out loud.
Maybe not even to Me.
But somewhere deep inside… you decided it’s safer not to expect anything.
Because then you can’t be disappointed again.

But Son—hope was never the enemy.

Disappointment was.
And disappointment without a place to grieve becomes despair.

But hope?

Hope is holy.

“Hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out in our hearts…” (Romans 5:5, NKJV)

I know it hasn’t always felt that way. 

I know you’ve read that verse through tears and confusion. 

But let Me tell you what that verse really means:

Hope—anchored in My love—can survive anything.

The problem isn’t that you hoped.
The problem is that no one taught you how to bring your disappointment to Me.

So you buried it instead.
You put your heart in a box and said, “Stay there. It’s not safe out here.”
And for a while, that worked.

But now?

You feel the ache again.
You long again.
You want to dream again… and it scares you.

Son, it’s okay to be scared.

But don’t confuse safety with shutdown.

You weren’t made for numbness.
You were made for life.

“I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.” (John 10:10, ESV)

And part of life is risk.
Part of life is not knowing.

Part of life is hoping again—not because you’re sure it will happen, but because you’re sure I’ll be with you no matter what does.

Hope is not a guarantee of outcomes.
Hope is a guarantee of My presence through all of them.

You don’t have to force it.
You don’t have to fake it.
But when you feel that flicker—don’t snuff it out.

That flicker matters.

“A bruised reed He will not break, and a smoldering wick He will not snuff out.” (Isaiah 42:3, NIV)

I’m not asking you to conjure up excitement.
I’m inviting you to let Me hold your hope.

Can we start there?

Can you tell Me the thing you’re afraid to ask for?
The desire that still lingers but feels too fragile to speak?

I’m not going to mock it.
I’m not going to tell you to grow up.
I’m going to sit with it.

With you.
 And remind you that you’re still allowed to want beautiful things.

You’re allowed to dream.
You’re allowed to grieve.
You’re allowed to hope—again.

Hope doesn’t mean you’re naive.
It means your heart is still alive.

And that’s a miracle I’m proud of.

So breathe, Son.
Let the door crack open again.
Let yourself want again.
Let yourself risk believing in goodness again.

Not because you know the outcome—
but because you know Me.

And I promise—I will never leave you disappointed in My love.

Love,
Your Father

But what about…?

“But Father, everybody I trusted didn’t show up for me.”

I know. And that broke something deep. You expected comfort and got silence. You reached for love and got absence. You hoped someone would see your pain—and they didn’t.

But Son, the failures of people don’t reflect the limits of My love.
I grieved every absence. I noticed every time you had to tough it out alone.
I wept when they should have wept with you.

And I’ve never missed a moment since.
I know it doesn’t erase the pain. But let it be the beginning of repair.

You’re not unworthy of being cared for.
You just weren’t always surrounded by those who knew how to care.

“But what if I get hurt again?”
You might. I won’t lie to you.

Hope makes your heart tender, and tender things bruise easily.

But Son, would you rather be safe and numb… or alive and able to love?

I’ll walk with you either way. But I created you for aliveness—not survival.
And I promise you: whatever pain may come, I will be there with a stronger embrace than anything this world could steal.

You’re not without defense. You’re held.

“But I’ve already waited so long."

I know. And I honor the ache of years. The birthdays. The quiet holidays. The unanswered prayers that left a residue you can’t explain.

But time doesn’t disqualify you.
Delay doesn’t disprove My kindness.

Even when the wait stretches longer than your strength, I’m still writing a story worth living.
One that you won’t regret being part of.
Not because everything goes perfectly, but because you won’t go through any of it alone.

“But what if I don’t know how to hope anymore?” 

That’s okay. Just sit with Me.
You don’t have to start big.
You don’t need fireworks.

Just start by saying:
“God, I don’t know how to believe again—but I want to.”

And that’s enough.
Hope isn’t a roar. Sometimes it’s a whisper that hasn’t quit.

I see the whisper in you.
And I love it.

You’re not behind.
You’re not broken.
You’re not hopeless.

You’re still Mine.

And I will teach you how to hope again—one breath at a time.

I hope these letters are finding you well.

-Spencer