The hope that’s always there

All through the winter months, the trees have hidden it: the life that streams through their veins.

Sometimes I’ve thought they must be dead.

Overhead the sky is making an impenetrable wall between us and the sun by spreading a thick blanket of fluffy gray clouds from horizon to horizon.

It won’t be long now before the gray blanket leaves.
And the daffodils are the first to appear.

All those months they sat, with only the promise of what would be, like a funny little onion underground.
Now they come up.

All that quiet waiting, silent growing and now we can see it. It makes everyone happy and they’ll do it again next year.

Yellow pieces of wonder on the side of the road and nobody can help looking at them, because everybody knows it.

Spring is coming. Thin, fragile yellow leaves are sowing hope in our hearts.

I always want to feel it.

I want to laugh and dance in the sunshine and revel in the joyful knowing, seeing and believing that everything will be all right and that there is a burning, shining light at the end of the road.

That the road is not long anymore.

I want to know and see what is coming.

Because it isn’t ecstasy, being buried under the earth.
It isn’t exciting, or pleasant, or funny when you wait for months at a time.

And you wait.
You wait and God knows. He is busy and makes us grow and all will be well.

He asks us if we will trust Him.
If we dare trust Him when everything seems to be at a complete standstill. When it is dark all around us, and inside us.

He asks if we are so sure of Him. Of Him who died for us, but so often seems so far away.
Him who allows so much suffering we can’t understand.

If we are so sure, that we keep on going.

If we are so sure that even during the hardest times in our lives, we keep on going not because we feel hope but because we know that hope is there.

He asks if the knowing is good enough.
If He is good enough.

And I know it. I know He is everything and He is good enough.

I know.
Sometimes in the sunshine, where I dance and laugh.

Sometimes under the ground, where I impatiently wait for what I may become.

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