On Hope

It isn’t always a little feathery thing, perched atop a box slammed shut, whistling a cheery tune.

Sometimes hope is recollection: I have been here before – in pain, and sorrowing, and alone – and I have survived it. Sometimes it’s courageous enough to say “I don’t feel it, but I have confidence that I will get through this, again, with God’s help.” Some nights (and days) it is an exhausted child, not understanding what it happening but trusting his mother’s love to carry him. In dark seasons, it can only sleep, huddled in a cubbyhole with a favorite blanket, longing in its dreams for the slow but certain return of the sun.

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