Hope Found Among the Thorns

Allison Gingras shares how her idea of hope has changed through the years as her faith has grown.

For the Jubilee of Hope, our writers reflect on prayer as a source of hope in their lives.

Christian hope, to me, means placing all my trust for my future in God’s promises, even when my answered prayers come with a side of thorns.

I learned this the hard way one summer afternoon in a friend’s backyard, chasing a birdie with all the enthusiasm of an Olympic athlete — minus the grace. My foot slipped, and I crashed spectacularly into her mother’s prized rosebush. While my friend stifled laughter, I looked toward heaven with a sigh and a sarcastic, “Seriously, God?”

Five days before, I began a prayer to Saint Thérèse of Lisieux for three special intentions. Three things I thought at the age of fifteen would make my life complete: a boyfriend, a job, and a car. The holy trifecta of early adulthood.

It all started a few weeks earlier. During a conversation with my mother, I was lamenting my lack of all three. Her advice was surprisingly simple: “Why don’t you pray for them? It couldn’t hurt.” This was coming from a woman I had never seen pray. We were, at best, Christmas-and-Easter Catholics. My memory of prayer with my family when I was growing up was an occasional, “Now I Lay Me Down to Sleep,” or a Rosary during thunderstorms. But desperate times call for divine interventions, so I decided to try.

Not knowing exactly how to begin, I turned to someone I had watched pray with quiet devotion for years: my best friend’s mom. Every evening around nine, she would retreat to a cozy corner of their parlor: a wingback chair bathed in the warm glow of a lamp, a side table stacked with a Bible, prayer cards, and a well-worn rosary.

One evening, I approached her with my prayer dilemma. She listened patiently, then reached for something on her table. Before she handed it to me, she recited a verse from the Gospel of Matthew:

“Ask, and it will be given to you; seek, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened to you.” (Matthew 7:7)

This sounded promising — like rubbing a spiritual genie lamp. With childlike hope, I accepted the small card she gave me. On it was a prayer to Saint Thérèse of Lisieux, the Little Flower. I was to say it before 11 AM for five consecutive days. She called it a novena, though this version seemed mercifully short. (Nine days of consistent prayer felt like an Olympic event for my AD/HD brain.)

I committed to it wholeheartedly. A boyfriend, a job, and a car. Any order, Lord. I'm flexible.

That Brings Us Back to the Rosebush

On day five of the novena, mere hours after my final prayer, I found myself quite literally entangled in roses—and not in the romantic way I had envisioned. As I picked thorns from my palms and glared at the heavens, I remembered something my friend’s mom had said with a knowing smile: “Saint Thérèse always answers with a rose.” Really? THIS was my rose?

Still curious, I dusted off the red Bible I’d received at Confirmation. I turned the tissue-thin pages to Matthew’s Gospel and read the verses surrounding the one she had quoted:

“Which of you, if your son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake?” (Matthew 7:9–10)

I couldn’t help but feel a little duped. I had asked for love, purpose, and independence — and instead, I got bruises, scratches, and confusion.

What Was I Missing?

It would take years — and a deepening prayer life — for the answer to unfold.

Now, with the gift of hindsight and spiritual growth, I realize the rosebush wasn’t a rejection. It was a reminder. It wasn’t a cruel joke from Heaven, but an invitation to trust deeper. God had not denied me good things. Rather, He had begun a transformation in my heart, one that would slowly reorient my desires.

As Saint Paul so beautifully reminds us:

We do not know how to pray as we ought, but the Spirit Himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words. (Romans 8:26)

My prayers were repackaged by the Holy Spirit: refined, redirected, and returned in the form of grace. What I had thought I needed wasn’t wrong, but it wasn’t the whole story. The true answer to my prayer was peace.

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As often happens when I surrender our expectations to God, the things I prayed for came in time. Within two months, I had three jobs, my dad bought me a car, and a boyfriend whose first gift to me was — you guessed it — a single rose.

That boyfriend? He’s now my husband. The car and the job have changed many times since, but the lesson remains: God always hears. He always answers. Sometimes with a whisper. Sometimes with a rose. And occasionally, with a rosebush.

Through prayer, I discovered that hope doesn’t come from getting what we ask for — it blooms when we begin to trust the One we’re asking.