When you hope for something, even for a long time, there are
mornings when you wake up thinking, “This might be the day!” With that, you capture a butterfly of
hope.
As the hours go by, you feel it fluttering sometimes to
leave the bounds of your open fist.
Other times you gaze at it: wondrous and beautiful.
The twilight slips past; you know you have to let go. The hope has not been fulfilled this
day. Your fingers slowly uncurl from the
beautiful thing you’ve been holding all day, enjoying and sort of trembling
for. You watch as it lifts off and flies
away. And you grieve.
On harder evenings, you throw your fist open and toss the
hope from you with bitterness. You
grieve.
Every night of hoping is a grieving, a letting go and
acknowledging a sort of irrecoverable loss.
Most of the time it is not too heavy a weight, this mourning, but it is
there, costly, daily.
There will be another butterfly tomorrow, and the choice to
take hold of it or not.
"Listen to my voice in the morning, LORD.
Each morning I bring my requests to you
and wait expectantly."
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