A lot of the time, it seems so hard to hold on to any kind of hope, to any shred of optimism that things are going to get better. And if I did not have a belief that refuses to be shaken, I don't think I could do it. (Let it be said that I think that holds true whatever it is that you, believe. The thing is to have something that guides you, something to hold on to, whether it's the God of the Bible, Torah or Quran, the teachings of Buddha or the Bhagavad Gita. I just think human beings need some kind of compass, or why would so much of human endeavour be devoted to some kind of search for meaning?)
Anyway, I say it's my belief that refuses to be shaken, because it's certainly not me. Most of the time, I am weak, confused, terrified, desperate for answers and generally about as a stable as a weeping willow in a gale. But there is a tiny, tenacious something that lives inside me that is always quiet with the peace of certainty, always alive, and always strong enough to keep the million pieces of the rest of me together. And that something is not of my doing. It was a gift that was given to me without my asking, because the Giver loved me so much He gave his only son for me, and sticks with me even when I'm at my worst, and probably not very lovable. That's my personal explanation. It's ok if you don't agree, or believe what I do. It's not about everyone having to believe the exact same thing; I'm just telling you what it's like for me. It's incredibly comforting to know you are loved like that.
So, I have hope. And I have hope because I have faith, or rather because Faith has me, and "...faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen." (Hebrews 11:1)
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune - without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
- Emily Dickinson -
And sings the tune - without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.
- Emily Dickinson -
I'm praying for you. I know you can do this.
ReplyDeleteThanks Till :) That means a lot xx
ReplyDeletePray for you every night I'm able to stay up to pray :)
ReplyDeleteIt's ok to be a weeping willow in a storm - the oak tree falls when a single tough wind hits it, to be able to bend and twist and dodge through everything life throws at you is indeed a more powerful task. Following the metaphor, praying your faith that makes up the tree trunk stays strong.
Love you loads & will try my best to keep awake whilst praying tonight for you :) - AK x
Didn't realise you'd posted since July - wonderful to find it all. Beautiful as always.
ReplyDeleteThe last time I needed a bloody good cry I leant against a little weeping willow. It gave me freedom to cry, refuge, comfort and strength. The oak next to it had just seemed too big and hostile. xx