Before we are even born, there is much hope; hope that the first trimester passes without incident, hope that kicks will be felt, hope that the child will not be cursed with the family nose and hope for a safe arrival.

Then there is hope that milestones will be met for walking and talking, that life will march on in a meaningful way. There is hope for contribution and impact and legacy.

Whatever our choices, we hope life goes on for a long, long time.

Hope is sometimes the only reason we show up.

It’s the fuel for sacrifice.

Hope is the marathon-runner and the shape-shifter of life; we hope the surgery will get all of it, we hope the chemotherapy will work, we hope the mane of hair will grow back, we hope it won’t spread, we hope for time, for just a bit more time.

We hope for comfort, we hope the ending is quick, we hope to get there in time we hope for salvation when it’s over.

Hope is a palpable thing in a room, as we wish for news, and it’s an action we take, with hands in prayer as we surrender on our knees.

We are more optimistic than realistic, counting the unlikely as truth and discounting that which we know to be true under the ever-sunny umbrella of hope.

It’s foolish, righteous, and obvious. It’s elusive, costly, and free.

When hope is gone, and not just shifted towards the next thing in line, the air exits the room.

It’s still.

Stale.

Notice your hope. Shift your hope. Hope.

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