Category Archives: Hope & Doubt

Faith and doubt are not opposites here.

These writings hold belief, scripture, uncertainty, and silence together — without forcing resolution or certainty.

When Hope Stops Working the Way It Used To

Reflection

Hope used to feel straightforward. If you showed up. If you stayed. If you offered what you had — a bed, a meal, a place to land — something good would follow.

For a long time, it did.

Pete stayed with me once. I called it K Street Shelter, half seriously, half because it mattered to name it. It began with someone sleeping in the back of a spare car, then a spare bed in a small unit. It wasn’t a solution. It was a door that stayed open.

But life shifted.

I got married. I moved. The unit ended. The spare bed disappeared. Pete left — homeless in Cairns, then homeless again here. When he returned, we were no longer standing on the same ground.

I kept hoping the old ways would still work. Texts. Check-ins. Offers to help. Familiar gestures.

They didn’t.

And that’s when doubt arrived — not about Pete, but about hope itself. What if hope doesn’t disappear, but simply changes shape? What if the thing that once connected us can’t be repeated — only grieved?

I’m learning that some hope must pass through doubt before it can become honest again.

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The Quiet Weight of Words

Hope is rarely loud. Doubt is rarely dramatic. Most often, they live in the spaces in between — in things said softly, in actions that seem small or misaligned at the time, in gestures that feel awkward or even risky.

I remember conversations I had “on the street” — moments that, at the time, felt almost reckless. Speaking in contexts that seemed mad even to me, because the timing was fragile, the expectations rigid, and the consequences uncertain. In those moments, I worried that my words would go unnoticed, misread, or backfire.

And yet, months or even years later, these same words have returned in surprising ways. A comment remembered, a question revisited, a small reassurance that shaped someone’s understanding of themselves or the world. They accumulated quietly, invisibly, until the weight of them became apparent.

There is a peculiar power in things that land adjacent to what is expected. They do not follow the prescribed flow, the neat path, the expected outcomes. Because of that, they linger. They shadow the official story. They persist.

These reflections notice the patient, subtle work of hope — how it is carried not in grand gestures but in moments that hang around, sometimes unnoticed, sometimes uncomfortable, until their significance becomes clear. And they notice doubt, too, not as an obstacle to hope but as its companion: the questioning, the fear, the uncertainty that makes those moments of courage worth acknowledging.

I’ve learned that the value of a conversation or a gesture is not always apparent at the time. Sometimes its meaning grows slowly, quietly, through repetition, remembrance, and reflection. What once felt disruptive or awkward can later prove to be grounding, sustaining, and profoundly meaningful.

Hope and doubt live together in this slow work. They are about continuing, even when certainty is impossible. They are about moments that don’t resolve neatly — the conversations, silences, and situations that quietly accrue significance long after the world has moved on.

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Hope and Doubt: A Starting Point

Hope and Doubt

Hope and doubt exist together.

Not as opposites to be argued against each other, but as companions that often arrive at the same time. Hope speaks of longing — for healing, meaning, justice, God. Doubt speaks of hesitation — shaped by experience, silence, unanswered prayer, or the limits of certainty. Most of us live somewhere in between.

This space is for writing that does not rush that tension.

What This Writing Holds

The reflections gathered here sit inside faith without pretending faith is simple. They draw from scripture, prayer, lived experience, and ordinary moments — while leaving room for uncertainty, silence, and questioning.

These are not arguments for belief, nor attempts to dismantle it. They are honest reckonings with what it means to stay human while believing, and to stay open while unsure.

Sometimes hope feels fragile.

Sometimes doubt feels faithful.

Often they coexist in the same breath.

Why Stay With the Tension

There is a temptation to resolve doubt quickly — to answer it, silence it, or treat it as a failure of faith. There is also a temptation to abandon hope when it feels costly or delayed.

These writings resist both impulses.

Instead, they stay with the questions. They notice where hope persists quietly. They honour doubt as a response to real life, not a problem to be fixed. In doing so, they make room for a faith that is lived rather than performed.

An Invitation

If you find yourself believing and questioning at the same time, this space is for you. If you feel pulled toward God while unsure how to name that pull, you are not out of place here.

Hope & Doubt is not about certainty.

It is about attention.

It is about remaining present — to God, to ourselves, and to the questions that shape us.

The reflections below offer moments of that staying.

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