We have a Chance in Life With Hope

I am so honored to be with you each day sharing hope. The outreach has grown at a tremendous pace. There are over 50 new subscribers a day. The site just past 106, 450 in followers. That’s because people are searching for hope and we provide it.


We are starting a new promotion tonight. The person who is our 110,000 followers will win some great prizes. As you can see it goes fast. Don‘t miss out. 


Doug Bolton, the founder of Signs of Hope, is writing a new book, “Signs of Hope for the Military: In and Out of the Trenches of Life.” It reaches out the military and veterans who may be battling anxiety, fear, depression, addictions, rejections, PTSD, and many other usual suspects. There are 22 military connected suicides every day. That is almost one every hour. We need to help stop those statistics. Be looking for more updates about the new book.


Hope’s Chances

The British mother, straight blond hair across her eyes, couldn’t look at the TV camera. As she and her partner stood in front of the media, they released what was left of their hopes. Their infant son Charlie, born with a rare genetic condition, had suffered massive brain damage. The parents fought hard for his life, but in the end, no doctor could help him. Now Charlie would be allowed to die in peace.*

Hope’s last thin wisp disappeared like morning mist. For them, all that was left was a sky with a hole in the shape of their baby boy.

We grasp for and cling to a crazy kind of hope when a child gets a terminal illness, when the cancer comes back, when nobody leaves the light on in your personal tunnel of woe. It’s hard to keep hoping in the face of a death sentence, yet we often rise to the occasion. “I’m hoping against hope,” we say, and smile to prove it—even when we know we don’t stand a chance.

But is hope sometimes foolish, setting us up for certain disappointment?

In my journey with my adult children, hoping they’ll recover from drug and alcohol abuse, I’ve sometimes wondered how far my hope can stretch. After decades of dealing with one son’s meth addiction as well as his two brothers’ alcoholism, lately I hear myself using words like “intractable.” It sounds a little like incurable, and a whole lot like hopeless.

The first time I said this aloud, I was interviewing a man who’d recently lost his son to the opioid epidemic. I was referring to my middle son’s meth addiction, which experts claim is harder than heroin to kick. “At this point,” I said, “my son has been a meth user for more than half his life.”

The man said he was sorry to hear it, but in my mind, I was suddenly standing mere inches from a speeding train. With a racing locomotive’s hot breath on me, only a fool would give me or my son a snowball’s chance. I waited for impact.

Until I remembered.

Hope isn’t always about odds. Often, it’s a way to keep going when you’re falling apart. Mostly, it’s about love.

My son has said and done things to his family that could make your whiskers curl. He’s called his dad and me names, cursed us blue and has stolen and destroyed property. In a meth-fueled rage when he was barely out of middle school, he attacked his Marine Corps veteran father.  My son’s been through inpatient treatment at least three times and outpatient rehab even more. We’ve gone to family and personal counseling, twelve-step meetings and educational programs on his behalf. So far, recovery hasn’t really stuck.

Some days, I catch myself thinking this addiction nightmare will never end. After all, meth is very hard to beat, and studies show that addicts’ chances dry up if the user doesn’t have much to lose. My son has no job, no spouse, no kids and no home except with us. There’s no parole officer or even a driver’s license to hang over his head. If he continues to abuse drugs, he’ll eventually also give up his youthful vigor, handsome looks and even his teeth.

But I try to remember that my son is not meth. What he does isn’t right or healthy or even tolerable, but he is much more than the sum of his sins. Much more. He’s a part of me, and I cannot stop loving him, encouraging him, and yes, hoping for him.

Some would say the hope expressed by baby Charlie’s parents was not only unrealistic, but cruel. Where’s the upside of an infant who can’t breathe on his own, see, hear or swallow? If meth addiction is indeed intractable, why not throw out my son and be done with it?

The answer I always seem to find is simple—love. Nestled inside a cocoon of love—foolish or not—a fragile hope can push back at the ugliest of prognoses.  We hope because we love—our families, friends, statesmen. And my kind of love always includes a Presence bigger and more mysterious than anything I can imagine.

The circumstances may still suck. Babies may slip away to be angels, senators may succumb and addicts may never stop using. Life is beautiful and frequently terrible, as Frederick Buechner says. Hope knows this all too well but still says, “Sure, life is awful. But I love you and I’m not giving up on you.” And our hearts get lighter for a while, just knowing someone is pulling for us.

When common sense says cut loose, hope keeps me from crumbling into a soggy mess. From time to time, hope even scolds me for using words such as intractable.

The Old Testament book of Ecclesiastes—not to mention the Byrds of sixties’ rock and roll—says there is a time for everything: sowing, reaping, birth, death, you-name-it. Yet throughout scripture, we’re reassured that if we place our hope in God, we’ll never be disappointed. Even old Job, whose life was an absolute train wreck, didn’t stop hoping in God.

The parents who hoped for their terminally ill son’s cure may as well have tried to catch the wind. They gazed at his tiny face and saw more beauty than anything, even with his grave condition and a feeding tube shoved up his nose. They probably sensed Charlie didn’t have a chance, but their love for a son outweighed the sorry odds.

Their experience has shown me how small and limited I can be about my hopes for my own son. Where graphs and charts and polls show meth addiction to be like a cancer that keeps coming back, I search for the good in my son’s still beautiful wide smile.  I’ll keep my slightly crazy hopes on display, partly to keep from strangling him, mostly to keep loving him. Will he ever stop using drugs and live a clean and sober life?

“It’s a long shot,” said the man who’d lost his son to a heroin overdose. “But don’t you ever give up hope.”

“Not a chance,” I said. “Not a chance.”

*Charlie Gard passed away one month short of his first birthday. May he rest in peace.

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Doctors Agree Those Patients That are Prayed for do better.

We are very happy to have Dennis Booth back as a guest blogger tonight. He has been a regular guest, and we are thankful that he is by your repsonses to his postings. feel free to make a comment and we will send it on to Dennis.


Is Prayer for Real of a Hoax?

The Internet has provided us with some wonderful research results and for me a paper on the effects of prayer only confirmed what I believed to be true.

That people who prayed regularly lived longer, recovered from illness quicker and lived a generally happier life.
It was a study done over a period of time within hospitals and outside and begs the question why is it so.
To non-Christians it would be what is known as the placebo effect.
In other words if you believe that prayer will do the things said above then your mind will attune it to react to that belief whether it is true or not.
That is the out of course for non-Christians who strangely enough whilst ready in many cases to denigrate Christianity, will be willing to accept prayer if they have a serious need.
Why is that so then?
Could it be because whilst they may not believe in God or the tenets of Christianity, know of people who have been helped by prayer.
I can personally vouch for the fact that many non-Christian friends I have worked with within the media, who are as tough an act to work with among non-believers, have when asked what is wrong with them have willingly unloaded a burden or burdens knowing I was a Christian.
It was a simple matter then for me to ask if they wanted me to pray for them and whilst admittedly few wanted prayer then on the spot, they were willing to accept I would pray for them.
I well recall a lass I worked with who had cervical cancer and was distraught because the doctor had more or less given her a death sentence.
She was not a Christian because she could not believe in her own words in a God who has taken her brother from her drowned in a Scottish loch.
I told her not to give up that I would willingly pray for her so she agreed as if that was a nice thought from a work colleague.
Weeks later she rushed up to me and before she could get out a word began to weep and I feared the worst but then she beamed and told me another biopsy had shown the mass had shrunk so much the doctor could not believe it.
Suffice to say within another month or two nothing was there and she willingly embraced a new life as a Christian.
Prayer is not a magic elixir, it is a communion with our Creator, the very means by which Jesus spoke to His Father.
I have little doubt God the Father was counselling Jesus the Son whilst the latter was on earth and also have little doubt that the reason Jesus so often wanted to be alone at night was that it was quiet and a time where he could talk/pray without interruption or interference.
On that cruel cross Jesus spoke a few times, to the thief, to John and Mary and then to His Father…and at the very last words almost of “Father, why has’t that forsaken me.”
death came almost immediately.
There are so many promises in the Bible that tell us prayer is answered; sadly too often we want it answered our way with the result we want.
God knows what is best for us but has promised He always WILL answer in the way He knows what is best for us.
We can either accept that prayer is a placebo effect and is all in our mind or accept that the more we prayer, the more we see results, the more we pray.

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