“Hope” is the thing with feathers –That perches in the soul –And sings the tune without the words –And never stops – at all –And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –And sore must be the storm –That could abash the little BirdThat kept so many warm –I’ve heard it in the chillest land –And on the strangest Sea –Yet – never – in Extremity,It asked a crumb – of me. ~Emily Dickinson
“It” came again. The thing of whispers and tears. Of scramblings to reschedule and stockpiling of beds with pillows and potion bottles of healing.
And then the bottom fell out.
Tears cried a river and all hope vanished while the sun set to rain. Cool towels soothed swollen eyes and the day ended a bleak lament.
And then it dawned.
And a quiet strength was found. Not one of warriors or heros, but one who’d faced a black hole and came out again.
And all of this was too amazing over coffee when out of the corner of her eye two purple finches perched on her third story window swelling their breasts to sing without a care in the world. Then off they flew into the sunrise.
These sweet messengers of hope and new tomorrows.
After breakfast coffee I open this from a friend:
“Now may the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you believe in Him so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit.” Romans 15:13
And I think there just might be hope planted in the day for me.