Hope is my story.

I feel so heavy with words. Words that want to be written. Words that want to be expressed. Words that I speak to myself, from time to time. Words that come from a deep sacred place; my heart.

Sometimes, I choose to unload them in my notebook. Many times, I let the words evaporate into thin air; with them goes the worries, the thanksgivings, the doubts and the worship, the anxiousness and the praise.

Here l am now, surrounded by a noisy bunch of boys and girls, in a library. The more anxious they get about their literature, the deeper I dig into my sacred place.

Hope must be a living thing, l thought this morning. Sometimes I feel, I can almost touch hope. If I stretch, just that bit more, l could hold it. So I thought that Hope must be an organ just like an eye or a liver or a heart. Maybe not as prominent like the nose. More like an invisible but invincible part of me, part of us.

Otherwise how is it that we can hope? How do we encourage ourselves and sometimes others?

Hope must be like a heart that keeps beating; keeps living. Hope could be like our eyes; keeps looking out and ahead. Like the ear, hope listens and encourages. Hope, like skin, protects. And when our feet gets weary, Hope takes over; like a mind.

I’m convinced Hope is real and is living and is in me.

A few days ago, I wondered if hope is too good for my good. Wouldn’t it be better if l choose to decide motherhood is not for me and just get moving with life, I thought. There are places to visit, money that could be earned, a ladder that should be climbed, a life perhaps more worth-while to be lived. But then I remembered, l am living the life I chose. Everything is in its place. Almost everything.

The want to have a kid feels more real now, than it ever did. The longing to carry my own overwhelms me. The revelation that motherhood is for me makes my knees go weak.

Over the last two weeks, I heard without being asked, four are pregnant; all with their first. First year of marriage, five years of marriage, before marriage and out of lust; so are their stories.

What is my story?


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