Yesterday, on a fence by the country road, a white dove rested. I paused, but kept driving. I questioned my vision, was it really a dove or was I just hoping?

If I turned back would it still be sitting quietly, would the plump bird with the settled stance be waiting just for me?

How sweet a gift that would be.

Or not?

Later sparrows scattered away from the oak as my steps must’ve startled and a velvet red cardinal danced in a one, two…three trees step.

Bluebirds flew too, in the place on the path that’s most private.

“Blue’s your favorite color, Grandma.” Elizabeth, only 2.

Is God really near or am I just hoping?

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –
That perches in the soul –
And sings the tune without the words –
And never stops – at all –

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –
And sore must be the storm –
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm –

I’ve heard it in the chillest land –
And on the strangest Sea –
Yet – never – in Extremity,
It asked a crumb – of me. Emily Dickinson

I hope so.

Continue and believe.