Happy Friday, dear friends. I had a 3am wake-up this week where all I could think about was ebola and beheadings and my precious children going out into this gnarly, gnarly world. I don’t know where it all came from (and why it ALWAYS descends at 3am!) but there I was, ever-so-slightly overcome by all the evil, the Hard, the wrath.
It’s too easy to let it all bury me. Bury me alive.
And then I ask God to help me see a tiny sliver of light and to not let the fear and rage blind me. As I have said here before, I will not let despair be my bedfellow. It will not have the last word.
This week, I simply asked God to help me get back to sleep, and he did. And when I woke up the next morning, everything felt more manageable, which is often the case in the light of day.
Somehow, someway, a fragile bit of hope winged its way to me. I call that grace.
Hope allows for possibility when the brain vultures are screaming impossibility. Hope holds that tiny space for something to look or feel even the slightest bit different.
Hope means we’re still believing. And, we’re still breathing.
Here’s to hope.
All my love,
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