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.
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.