Do you remember what it was like to be a kid at Christmas? For me it conjures up memories of pure excitement, seemingly always counting down to Christmas morning. Maybe you were staring at the tree, eyeing that one special gift, that one that was wrapped just right, the box the perfect size, and the tag with the most important words you could read: "To: Austin." Just calling your name.
Over the days and weeks I'd sneak into the living room and pick up the box. Angle it this way and that, hoping to hear something sliding around inside. "Ohhh, that felt solid. What could be in there?" Then shake it and speculate. Just counting down the days. As if staring at the box long enough I was going to develop spontaneous x-ray vision. Which wouldn't have helped anyway since even if I figured out what was inside, I was still going to be waiting.
That's exactly the kind of eager anticipation Isaiah writes from in chapter 9. He describes the coming of the Messiah in the past tense, as if it's already happened, because that's how certain he is that it will. "For to us a child is born, to us a son is given." He hasn't been born yet. It won't happen for another 700 years. But Isaiah writes as if it's already done, because when God makes a promise, you can treat it like a fact.
Like a child who has absolutely zero doubt that Christmas morning is coming. No question in his mind. He's just counting down the days, completely convinced, full of barely-contained joy. That's what real hope looks like. Not wishful thinking. A settled certainty about something you can't see yet.