They Call Her Hope

It’s like the smallest of crystal clear bubbles welling up and rising to the surface only to disappear with the faintest tinkle of a pop. Appearing beautiful and unlike another only to be gone when you reach out to wrap your hands around it. Running out the door to see the pink light fade to shades of grey. Hope is fleeting in the moments she allows us to glimpse her face but yet, somehow she still carries us from dawn till dusk.

*Photocredit unknown. If yours, I will add credit.

*Photo credit unknown. If this is yours, please contact me and I will add credit.

I’m not even sure we can live without the golden threads of hope trailing along beside us. The dark ones, the heavy ones – they miss her face the most. Like the friend you don’t realize how good it is to see until they’re holding a warm red mug right there in front of you. Sitting in the dark her face becomes the most distant of memories; so I’m asking you to bring her to them.

And don’t be afraid to show up with empty hands to the one who is so heavy.

Go and sit with them in the night that doesn’t seem to end, but bring her by your side. Not in clichés or worn empty words, but in story, and sunsets, and all the beautiful fragments that make one pause. The darkness that wraps around them can be broken however briefly by another. 

Hope looks so unfamiliar they may not even see her there gently glowing a warm golden hue. Understand the veil is heavy and takes so much to lift. She pulls and tries to lift the veil, but it catches so she lets it fall. A brief burst of color overwhelmed by shades of grey. The light retreats and the familiar almost comforting darkness returns once more. The dim warmth of her light tries to push through the clouded veil and those in the shadows pull at the strands of old memories to remember who or what this could be.

It’s like scouring your memory to remember what you once knew. You know that this woman is beautiful, but yet you can’t quite look her straight on. Somehow even the faintest looks from her leave you oddly peaceful. The kind of peaceful that makes your soul almost sigh in relief as it settles into itself. But now the woman reaches forward and guides your leaden hands to the veil, gently slipping it up and away from hooded eyes.

Blinking into the brightness of a new light an old friend stares back with open eyes.

Hope came to me in a blonde haired, green eyed, flower child, in Elizabeth Gilbert, and the Psalms. But hope knows no true form and she will lift you no matter how deep you seem to have sunk within your own layers of grey and blue. I know this because hope settled beneath my feet, when I couldn’t see her and lifted my foot with each step forward. She pushed and tugged and yanked until the veil stitched in all those shades of blue and grey gave way and unraveled into the threads of yesterday.

She wrapped me in her own white cotton sheath with the golden lining and let me just be. To sit and breathe without the weight that sunk a thousand ships. Never was there a better gift.

Hope creates space; she travels light and opens room within. Spaces of light to grow and push on the edges of darkness that constantly threaten to seep back in. She plants the lasting kind of beauty that stays long after you can’t feel her warmth.

Hope speaks however she pleases. She weaves together every bit of goodness she can gather around us to sew her golden lining. The threads are there to sparkle like golden dust long after we have forgotten her face.

Trying to cling to her is futile though dear one. Like I’ve told you, she’s a bit of a flower child and blows in and out like a morning breeze. Trust her lightness will arrive as swift as your darkness. Because without her we are lost in the dark, groping for a reason to move along. She carries us.

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