I am a hoper. Always have been. Always will be. One thing I have learned, as one who hopes,
Hope is not hope because it is constant.
Hope is hope because even when it falls in doubt,
it gets back up again.
There is something childishly romantic about the notion of never wavering. I love the idea, but am beginning to admit its improbability. But with that acknowledgment comes a new understanding of the beauty of hope.
The slow-to-glimmer, dimmed and dusty kind of hope. The diamond in the rough variety. The underdog you fall in love with, and root for until your voice is gone.
Think of a tree. (Any deciduous, in the Midwest.) I normally consider spring as the beginning of a tree’s life; but I wonder if it’s better to think about the tree starting somewhere in the middle, say June. Green leaves, all is well. Some summers it can enjoy blue skies and rain; and some it endures drought and suffers heat exhaustion. Whether the summer was easy or difficult, every autumn it loses its leaves. Every single autumn. Then, the yearly death of winter–brittle cold, ice and wind and darkness, and the numbing lack of anything that looks like life or growth. And then comes spring. And the tree buds. Every single spring.
But the hope is not just in the spring and the budding; the hope is just as present in the autumn with the falling; and the winter with the waiting.
I’m beginning to see how much hope has to trust.
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