The tiptoe into spring has begun.
Yes, the trees are still bare,
the rains drizzle on
and cold winds seep into my bones.
Yet even so if I open my eyes and ears
I see bushes giving birth to tiny buds,
hear the croak of a sleepy frog,
listen to the song of a travel-weary robin.
And the earth bears hope again.
Hope is familiar,
and yet extraordinary.
It is the thing that makes work worth doing,
life worth living,
filling my hours with purpose.
From hope to hope I live my days.
It is my very heartbeat.
Except for when it's not.
When the things I've hoped for don't come to pass
again and again.
Hope squashed,
splattered,
scorned.
When hoping seems fruitless, pointless, hopeless.
And maybe I give up
and turn to hope for something else,
and it fails me too.
My heart becomes sick and weary
and shields itself with cynicism,
But then I watch
as a bird builds her nest.
Pine needle by pine needle,
hour by hour,
day by day.
Lining it with moss and feathers,
taking care that it is safe and soft
for her hope.
And I remember that there is a nest for me,
a place that is safe and soft
under the shadow of his wing.
There I find strength for today
and then peek out
at the bright hope of tomorrow and forever
with the Inventor
of faith, love and hope.
The God of all hope who will never disappoint.
I dive in to hope once again,
let it pulse through my mind,
and feed my heart,
opening doors of possibility and purpose.
Hope is hard,
Hope can hurt.
Yet I choose hope,
because to live without it
isn't living at all.
