Earlier this week I was invited to share poetry and host a few breakout sessions for a group of 800 high schoolers on Mackinac Island.

The whole time I kept thinking: I can't believe this is my job

One moment from the weekend that I continue to replay in my mind is a conversation I had with a girl who is going into her senior year of high school. 

Late one night I sat with her and a few of her friends on the floor of a hotel hallway as she told me about life at home.

It wasn’t a good situation.

It was messy and painful and all the things you don’t want life to be like for another person. 

“Are you overwhelmed?” I asked.

She nodded.

It was obvious, but sometimes you need to be asked the obvious question.

She told me how God had been slow to answer her prayers, but that she continued to pray.

“What are you praying for?” I asked.

“For things to get better. I just want things to get better,” she said.

I’ve prayed that prayer many nights.

It usually goes like this:

Dear Lord,
Just make it all better.
Amen.

I didn’t have an answer for her.

But I don’t think she told me about life at home because she thought I would have an answer.

I think she told me about her life because earlier that day I told her about mine.

Earlier that morning she sat in one of my breakout sessions.

The session was titled, ‘Hope Doesn’t Let the Story End.”

And it doesn’t.

Hope keeps us moving forward.

In that session I shared a handful of personal stories about how life didn’t go the way I thought it would.

I was honest.

I talked about hurts and failures and fears. 

I talked about the seasons of life where I just wanted things to get better.

I talked about how pain is a teacher and how I cannot help but believe good is on the way.

I talked about prayer and Jesus and being present and all things I had learned over the last few years.

I talked about hope.

I’m always talking (and writing) about hope and how it doesn’t let our story end. 

When the world tries to write in a period, hope adds a comma and says, “keep going.”

So we do.

As we sat there on the floor, I told her what a friend had told me a few years ago.

“I hate this for you.”

And I did.

I wanted things to be better for her.

She nodded again before quietly saying, “thank you.”

I found myself in many conversations like this one throughout the week.

High school students don’t have it easy.

Their lives are filled with pressure and pain and uncertainty. 

We were silent for a while and then I told her something I’ve been telling myself:

“You know things get better, right?”

She nodded.

A few moments later she said something I didn’t know how to respond to.

“Things will get better, but it doesn’t always get better for everyone.”

I raised my eyebrows and moved my head the way you raise your eyebrows and move your head when someone says something you aren’t sure how to respond to.

I’ve been learning to sit in silence.

Not every comment needs an answer.

Sometimes the silence says it all.

But one of the other students sitting with us chimed in and broke the quiet.

“I think it does get better for everyone, just not in the way we think. We have hope and that means the story ends with us being with Jesus. Life is going to be hard, but it ends with heaven. And heaven is way better than this place.”

She smiled and nodded.

So did I.

Everything gets better, just not right away.

Heaven is way better than this place.

Even better than Mackinac Island.

About the Author

Tanner Olson is an author, poet, speaker, and podcaster living in Nashville, Tennessee.

He is the author of I’m All Over the Place, As You Go, Walk A Little Slower, and Continue: Poems and Prayers of Hope.

You can find Tanner Olson’s books on Amazon.

His podcast is The Walk A Little Slower Podcast with Tanner Olson and can be found wherever you listen to podcasts.

Tanner Olson travels around the country sharing poetry, telling stories, and delivering messages of hope.

You can follow Tanner Olson on Instagram (@writtentospeak) and Facebook where you’ll daily find encouraging words of faith and hope.