A New Way to Hope

Stories that Describe the Journey to Hope
​​by William Stephenson, Ph.D.
​Available in paperback, Kindle, PDF eBook, and MP3 Audiobook

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     Where can a genuine hope be realized in the midst of dying and death? That’s what this book wants to answer. And there is clearly more than one answer. But the journey to a realistic hope begins with the understanding that tomorrow is not promised, and thus we must not be careless with today. Those who choose to find hope this way will no longer let anger and resentment and grudges go on and on and on, convinced that tomorrow is already theirs. 
     When we accept the uncertainty of tomorrow, it energizes our confidence that today is a gift; and then our focus can become reconciling and forgiving and loving, not just to others but also to ourselves, and now.
     Death is not some monkey wrench that God has thrown into the machinery of our lives.  Rather, death is a purposeful part of God’s providence. Knowing that this day is a gift, that tomorrow is not yet given or guaranteed, energizes us to live fully now.  This is a hope that is humble and filled with gratitude. It’s a hope that can build bonfires. It’s a hope you will now read about that will perhaps urge you to modify your understanding of this four-letter word…Hope.

LIMITED TIME OFFER - When you order A New Way To Hope in paperback from amazon.com, author William Stephenson will send you a gift copy of Sunrises and Sunsets at no charge. Just email Dr. Bill and ask for your free copy. While supplies last!

an excerpt...

Bonfires

Part I

     His name was Anthony. He was nine years old and from Jersey Shores. He was a kid who loved the beach and sand so much he practically lived there. But he had cancer. Bone cancer. Initially in the spine, it was spreading rapidly. He came out to California to participate in an experimental trial, but his chances were not good. I was asked to be part of his care as counselor to him and his family. 
     Anthony liked to draw. That was going to be my way of getting through to him. We started to draw together, almost competitively. But the rule I expected us to both follow was to describe or explain what the drawing meant, or how we felt about what we had drawn. We spent several hours drawing and talking with each other about our drawings and about our lives. 
     “Dr. Bill, what are you drawing today?”
     “I’m drawing the house I grew up in. Would you like to see it?”
     “Why did you draw this house today and not yesterday?”
     “Anthony, your intuition is incredible. Because today is the day my father died, and I was home at the time I was told of his death. I drew the house today to remember him. Anthony, what would you draw that will help others remember you?”
     He thought about this for several moments, and then he said, “I would draw myself running on the beach like I used to before the cancer. I want people to remember me when I was well, not when I was sick.”
     “Would you draw that for me, Anthony? I’ve only known you when you’ve been sick. Would you show me what you were like when you were well?”
     “Sure! But would you tell me more about your father, Dr. Bill?”
     “I will, but will you tell me more about how you feel about your battle with cancer? Would you be willing to draw me a picture of that?”
     “Tomorrow, when you come see me again, I will have a picture of me and my cancer.”
     “Fair enough. Now let me tell you about my father.”
     He listened intently as I described my father’s life and battle with a rare disease, and how, as a fifteen-year-old, I made the commitment to care for him until his death. Anthony had many questions, and eventually, he began to understand that my relationship with my father was more important than dwelling upon my father’s impending death. Death could never take away the love my father and I had for each other. 
     “Dr. Bill, I already have a drawing of me and my cancer. But I was afraid to show it to anyone. I think I can now.” He pulled out of his dresser drawer a picture. I asked him to describe it for me.
     “This is a picture of a rocket that is just about to crash into a fiery mass of destruction, hurting all those near it.”
     “I see five people nearby. Is that your mom, dad, and your sister? Who are the other two?”
     “My grandparents.”
     “And the rocket is you, isn’t it?” 
     “Yes. My cancer isn’t just killing me, but it’s destroying everyone near me. We were all so happy until I got cancer. It’s all my fault!”
     Then Anthony leaned against me and wept. And wept. He hadn’t cried like this ever before. He felt so responsible for all the sadness and anguish his family was having to endure. 
     The next day, I called for a family conference and I asked Anthony to share his picture. I told them no one was to leave, no matter how emotional things got to be, and it was indeed a very emotional time. But they listened to him, and Anthony felt they had listened. They talked about their journey with this disease that had attacked their son, her brother, their grandson. They told the truth. For the first time, everyone was telling each other the truth. 
     It was a marathon session, and we would have more of them from time to time so they would stay committed to the honesty this nine-year-old said he needed from them. 
     The last drawing Anthony gave to me was a picture of the ocean with the sun on the horizon. It was a beautiful and colorful picture. And flying around in the sky were five birds all clustered together. 
     “Are the birds your family, Anthony? And is the sun setting a symbol of you?”
     “Yes and no, Dr. Bill. You forget, I’m from New Jersey, and, unlike here in California, the sun rises on the ocean’s horizon.”
     “No more rockets crashing, huh, Anthony?”
     “No more crashing rockets, Dr. Bill. I’m into sunrises.”

is the only thing stronger than fear.
--Robert Ludlum