It’s 4:55 on a Tuesday, a baseball afternoon. We all have rushing to do to make it to the first game of the fall season.
I’ve done my due diligence. Dinner is in the crockpot: pork chops with apples and pecans. We’ve rushed through spelling lists and daily reading and math facts.
It’s fall and even though the heat of the day still lingers in the corners, night is just barely whispering her cool breeze. The best kind of light is falling through the kitchen window. It’s yellow and orange and soft, making a line across the kitchen floor. Everything looks better under the cast of an autumn afternoon.
But. Yesterday brought a sip from a bitter cup and disappointment lingers in my body. It dulls all of my hopeful senses. And not everything looks better. Some things look hard.
I know hope is promised. Sure. True. I know all of the Sunday School answers and the road from my head to my heart seems so long. Still, I long to walk it. To settle hope right down over the not yets and maybe nevers in the fleshy and tender part of my being. I know hope brings healing and I want to grasp it as fully as I can here.
I’ve been here before and I’ll be here all over again soon, this place where my heart longs to leap full but my mind is heavy cement.
It’s the best place to start, right here in the need.