Hope and hurt go hand in hand, permanent partners, like ocean and sand. Like love and loss. Like Christ and cross. If one is to be cunning as a serpent but is not innocent as a dove, she ceases to be either. Hope is no more in the absence of hurt like a bird without the sore of winter’s brutal weather. Hope is a warm and gentle thing that perches in the battered soul, and lifts its tiny voice and sings its loudest amidst the gall.


Inspired by a friend who is wrestling with the pain of hope, and Emily Dickinson.

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