On Hope


When dreams of living on land aren’t realized, I’m thankful for times we have to run and enjoy the glory of creation. For sunsets and laughter, for running free. For dreaming still, even when it feels hopeless. When it seems all is lost.

But as Emily Dickinson wrote,

“’Hope’ is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops – at all.”

At the beginning of Holy Week, I’m desperate for hope to come and make all things that were lost right again.

To redeem.

And as hard as it is in the face of so much brokenness, I will put my mustard-seed trust at His feet. Where my tears become prayers.

Whisper, “I believe, Father. Help me in my unbelief.”

Grace and peace.



He asks me this in the quiet of the night. Holy hours when kids and dogs sleep, and we read side by side, silently, sometimes breaking the silence to share a line from our books, sometimes to share something on our hearts. The latter is more me than him. I married a quiet man. He married a chatty wife. We make it work.

So in this sacred stillness I blurt out the plans I’ve made for Lent and he asks in his tenderest voice: “Babe, how will we fit it all in?”

I plan to write out a list of our daily schedule on the chalkboard in our dining room. We will not meet these everyday. I get that. And I’m okay with it. Life just isn’t black and white; I’m learning to embrace the grey. But like any other “goals,” we will strive for them, and as long as our hearts are pointed in the direction of seeking more of Him and less of us — as long as we as a family are committed to moving toward the cross humbly and in expectation — we will have met this goal.

More of HIM in our everyday dealings with each other, others, and ourselves. Lord, let it be so.

Grace and Peace.