Quite unexpectedly hope trickled into my arid soul, watering dusty recesses of my need from an unseen supply.
The big problems in my life remained; my way still ended in a blank wall. But now, hope held hands with desperation and together these companions urged me on to God.
Hope whispered, "The night of weeping will give place to dawn—perhaps not all at once, like sunbeams breaking into a shadowed valley—but gradually, midnight softening to gray and gray to palest apricot and apricot to pink in the eastern sky."
However morning comes, it will come.
Until then, I’ll let hope and desperation do their work. And when desperation is the only one I hear, I’ll remember that his gruff voice says, “Press closer, beloved of the Lord. Let me press you through cold impossibility and ugly reality and dark unknown—through to the bosom of your Father. In due time, hope will speak again.”
Weeping may tarry for the night,
but joy comes with the morning.
© December 2011 by Robert G. Robbins