Maile and I sit at the tiny kitchen table in my parents’ basement. Christmas music plays quietly. Cade and Lucy are asleep in the other half of the basement, Abra and Sam sleep back in the bedroom, and the laundry turns in its erratic rhythm. We are counting down the days until we can move.

But there is peace here, in the midst of a slowdown in work, and living in tight spaces. And a stupid speeding ticket. There is peace in the midst of more doctor’s appointments and more words I want to write and an overwhelming desire to contribute.

I’m not always sure where this peace comes from, but I have a feeling it originates mostly from hope. When I’m hopeless, I’m peace-less. Hopeful, peaceful.

* * * * *

As we sat at the table, Maile pointed out an article at Yahoo.com about the parents of Columbine shooter, Dylan Klebold:

When asked what they would say to Dylan if they could speak to him now, Tom says, “I’d ask him what the hell he was thinking and what the hell he thought he was doing!”

Sue’s answer is a revelation. She says, “I would ask him to forgive me, for being his mother and never knowing what was going on inside his head, for not being able to help him, for not being the person he could confide in.”

I think one of the quickest ways we lose hope is when we stop confiding in people. When we start providing all of the answers to our own questions.

* * * * *

I received an email from someone I met on the interwebs. She told me she was walking through the valley. She told me that sometimes she came pretty close to losing all of her hope. She told me that reading one of my old posts (“You Will Want to Give Up. Don’t.”) is one of the few strands that she can hang on to.

And I’ll tell you this – her simple act of confiding helped to pull me up out of my own downward cycle. This, I think, is what happens when we confide in one another: outside voices, even desperate ones, carry their own small vein of hope. Because when someone confides in you, or you in them, something besides the words is communicated.

There’s a chance I’ll get past this.

There’s a tiny possibility that we’ll talk again, in better times.

Even though I sometimes want to give up, I hope.

Don’t keep all of that sadness or depression or madness to yourself. Find someone to confide in. You might find an unexpected hope.