I chose to dwell on the word "Hope" this year. Last September, I wrote Fruition of Hope to explain how after Mom's passing, hope was hard to hang on to. The gist of it was that I need to keep on keeping on trying even if it looks like I'm failing.
The thing is, I still haven't made hope a habit. I think it was at one time, when I was younger, and both of my parents were alive. But after Daddy died, it seemed like I was holding on to hope with one hand. As mom would get sicker, I would feel it slipping from my hand, and no matter how much tighter I tried to hold on, I felt it fall from my grasp when she died. (Fear not. I had hope of Heaven for her and myself, but not much hope for me here.)
I'm beginning to think that hope isn't something I'm supposed to grasp. My hand is supposed to be open in trust, and then it will perch there like a welcome parakeet (which makes me giggle, since "Paraclete" and "parakeet" rhyme), where I can tenderly embrace it rather than grab it.
Anyhow, I'm thinking that hope can't exist without trust. If I trust my Heavenly Father, then I have hope that it will work out for the best. So sad that virtues can't be worked on one at a time. :-)
This post is in response to Faith Barista's Faith Jam: Hope