When all the doors have been shut, all the light been snuffed out from the heavens and upon the earth, she will be the last one holding death’s hand.
Hope, though an elusive siren, has the power to move mountains, no, to annihilate them. She is the one dressing in her formal regalia, strutting around as faith. For what else does faith give us, but hope for a better future?
Yet, if you ask me what it is that can summon her to our earthly plane, I will not be able to give you a precise answer. Or, putting it in other words, there is no precise description for a chimeric thought such as this.
It can be a lonesome tree amidst the horror of a German concentration camp. It has been bottled in 2.3 million small doses in the early spring of 1944. It echoes through your phone when you hear the words: “A matching donor has been found.” It rests its hand on your shoulder when you read through the list of survivors from the latest school shooting.
Hope, although mostly different for everyone, causes nevertheless the same feeling of elevation, triggers the same thoughts of having a chance at turning things around and makes your heart beat ever so faster. Now how would you feel if these reactions are caused by whomever you have allowed to traverse life with you?
Lift your head from where you are sitting right now.
Is that person with you now?
Will it ever be?