Hope’s birthing







Her chances of success were never great from the start,

what with odds so stacked against her.

Reality’s weighty, sullen face stared at her,

gloating from it’s place in the darkened corners of her life,

the places where she feels so often drawn.

Yet, as alluring as her darkness had become,

she turns the other way, holding a shaking hand above her brow,

shielding her eyes from this unaccustomed glare.

It was the prism of peace, cracked open and bleeding its light,

chasing rats of fear, demons of doubt, beasts of uncertainty, veils of perception

back to their primordial Gehenna, place of shadow and falsity.

Through this forgotten looking glass, one solitary face revealed itself,

one both frightening and aloof, yet gentle and welcoming.

This light was not safe.

It burned a little. It’s brightness hurt her eyes and

drove all other retinal things to the peripheries of her inner room.

She, like Saul, shared the Damascus Road which planted itself squarely before her.

Blindness had given her sight.

Darkness had gifted her with light.

Woundedness had blessed her with might.

And in one blinding second,

faith gave birth to hope.

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