Everything hope lives in is so vulnerable. So shakeable, so changeable, so delicate. I suppose it has to be. I suppose that’s the very nature of hope.
But it makes it harder. And yet (hopefully), no less possible.
Hope is in that which is never sure… never absolute, never completely understood, not quite realised. It holds your head, your heart, your life and your hands – and yet promises you absolutely nothing.
Promising nothing, but for the mere possibility that it could - in fact - hold it all.
Nicely put.