Hope Lives On

Every day on my way to school (whether I’m driving myself or taking the shuttle), I pass by the abandoned textile mills along Highway 29. Not too long ago, these buildings represented industry and productivity; prosperity for the community. They've been closed down for years, though, and are long since abandoned. Whatever they were, they still take up a huge stretch of the road. Empty buildings, once full of employees, life, and busyness, are now barely more than wasted space.

Since moving to the area, I’ve heard a lot about the mills and how, when they closed down, people essentially lost hope. The town is depressed, economically and emotionally (pardon me if I’m projecting [but then again, what is this blog beyond my personal projections?]). And there the mills sit: looming, haunting reminders of a time when things were different. Driving by them must be torture for some people, the ones who thought that it could never end, the ones who put all their hopes and dreams into the success of the mills.

They’re being torn down, you know. Someone told me that each of those buildings had about a million dollars’ worth of recyclable material in it. A million dollars sounds like a lot of money but in comparison to all the people who lost jobs and investments, a million dollars is a drop in the bucket. Soon the empty buildings will be gone forever—like the jobs and the hope are gone forever—and the only thing left will be an empty field. The reminder of lost hope will be gone, and maybe that’s for the best. When you’ve lost all possibility for what you hoped for, then is it better to just let the memories fade away? Is lost hope better than no hope at all?

I’m sure you’re all familiar with the Greek myth of Pandora’s Box. An overly nosy girl is told, “Please don’t open this box; you’ll regret it” and what does she do? She opens the box. Out fly Death, War, Sickness, Fear, Poverty, Pain, and any number of terrible things that should’ve remained shut up forever. As Pandora sits crying on the floor (regretting it), one last thing comes flying out of the box—Hope. As a child, I was told that hope is the best thing in the box, the one thing that makes the others tolerable. But what if that’s wrong? What if Hope was locked in the box not as a sort of consolation prize for death and sickness and pain, but because it is so dangerous? What if Hope is the most dangerous thing in the box, locked away to protect us from a very unique sort of pain?

These are the thoughts circling through my mind as of late and if you’re thinking, “Wow, that’s depressing,” you’d be right. It’s only half the story, though. The people living in the greater Valley area are renewing their hope because of new industry and because of the university’s move. We are playing a part in renewing their hope and that is such a powerful image of God. It’s scary; we don’t know what will happen. Will this transition be successful? Will we hammer out a place in this town and with these people (it reminds me of two newly married people trying to blend individual families into one) or will our presence be a cause for dismay? There’s a lot of potential here—for them and for us—but there’s also a lot of risk. Hope IS dangerous, don’t forgot, and it was put in the box for a reason. However, and this is important, every tragedy has potential for a new triumph.

The mills are being torn down, but the university is building. And hope lives on.