Sur le fil et Comptine D'un Autre Ete-L'Apre

At 3 in the morning when the really early birds are already singing and night owl friends are hardly sleeping, the word "hope" sounds strangely bright, anachronistic and misplaced amidst an emotional landscape that feels and smells like a monochrome portrait of New Orleans after Katrina.

We do not hope in ourselves, because one cannot hope in the death within, but must hope in life from without. We cannot hope in our contortions of dreams because they lack the substance to support reality. We cannot hope in the past because hope yearns forward by definition. We do not even hope in hope itself, because unless the object of hope cannot disappoint, we will be left again with our empty hands trying to cover our naked hearts.

And though we dirty our knees with our nose in the dirt and eyes out of focus, rolling the Kyrie off our tongue like the tears that follow gravity down interesting lines of our face, we cling, like the bleeding woman for what seems like 12 broken years, to the frayed edges of Hope hoping... hoping against hope that if we don't let go, He will say, "Child, your faith has healed you."

In whom shall I trust? In whom shall I hope?