The other night, my wife and I watched Shakespeare in Love. We didn't start it with a lot of enthusiasm, but the selection of streaming movies on Netflix leaves a lot to be desired. But it was an award winning film and we did enjoy it. Afterward, lounging in the romantic red glow of the "You have finished watching Shakespeare in Love" screen that Netflix displays, I admitted to my wife that I kind of like romantic movies--but I never watch them.

She was mildly confused, but mostly I think she was just enraptured by the red glow on my face and anything I said at that point would have been amazing. So I went on. I told her that I have always secretly enjoyed romantic movies simply because one day I wanted to have some romance in my own life. For an hour and a half, I could feel all warm and fuzzy and pretend that I had actually fallen in love. I kept a pretty straight face though and I doubt anyone realized what was going on in my head during the movie. I always finished feeling a little twitterpated.

And that's why I stopped. Because the twitterpation only lasted for a short while. Then the depression set in. I wasn't really in love, I was just pretending. When the difference between reality and imagination became a little too much to handle, I got depressed.

Somewhere in that conversation with my wife, I said the following thing: "There is a fine line between hope and lament." It was a great line that even now, sitting in front of the white glare of the blogger site, still sounds good.

There is a point when one's hope becomes too much to bear. The fulfillment of one's greatest wishes seems an impossible thing. That's when the lamenting begins. The self-pity, the moaning, the woe-is-me-ing. The sighing (one of my personal favorites). I'm not sure this is even wrong, per se. The Bible is full of laments. Some of them God's.

So what do we do with that? When all hope is lost and we are sinking in despair, what do we do--especially when the greatest men of biblical history are sinking right along with us?

I don't know. Usually for me the lamenting feeling just goes away of its own accord. Its like I get tired of it and without even realizing it, don't do it anymore--like playing with my Legos when I was a kid. There is a difference, though, between my laments and those I see in the Bible. Those laments, far more poetic than my own, always seem to end on a positive note. "Woe is me, my enemies assault me from every side," they cry out. And then, when the tears are gone and the emotion spent, they say something to the effect of this: "But God is good and he will be praised." Or, "But my help comes from the hills and God lifts me up." Notice the upswing, the return to hope?

Its almost as if hoping in something is like walking up a hill. Its tiring and our legs hurt and we begin to wish there was some change in the terrain. And then the trail finally turns a corner and starts descending slightly. The change of pace feels good, but it comes at a cost: we are losing elevation and we are painfully aware of it. But the rest is good for our muscles. And when it comes time to "hope" our way up the next incline, we are more ready for it than we had been before. And know that we will make it to the next lament.