Hope is that pesky desire that lays its head on the pillow beside you, whispering while you sleep, “Tomorrow will come.”
Hope is the sun’s first ray that touches the horizon, carrying promises of a new day. A new chapter.
Hope is the first tomato on the plant when you didn’t mix the right ratio of fertilizer and peat moss.
Hope is the first sprout of green in the garden after the winter promised life wouldn’t come in the spring.
Hope is the darkness that covers the earth each night to prep for tomorrow’s birth.
Hope is the deer meat he left in the freezer as a way to say he would return.
Hope is the blue bird’s song, reminding us that if it can survive then you can, too.
Hope is Lawrence who finds the courage to tell me he’s hungry with tears in his eyes, telling me he will do me no harm.
Hope is the friend who makes a pallet for you on your favorite spot on the floor or the friends who send flowers to your door when life is heavy.
Hope is an inhale, a stretch, an exhale.
Hope is the mother who places her child in the arms of a stranger, trusting her child will have a better life than what she thinks she can provide.
Hope is the refugee who leaves their memories, their life, their home behind to search for safety in a foreign land.
Hope is stubborn and always finds a way to kick down the wall, to climb a mountain, to swim upstream in order to find and embrace our hearts and souls, broken or whole. Hope finds us. Or, maybe hope was always there, waiting to be tapped into like the fresh mountain spring that’s ready to share its life with a weary traveller.