There are days, good days, sunshiney spring-is-here-at-last days, when I sing hope's praises alongside Emily, as well I should.
There are days, grey days, drizzly winter-may-stay-forever days, when I want to strangle the thing with feathers to silence its incessant song.
You irritate me, little bird. You tantalize me with your promises and frighten me with your risk. You're unabashed, Emily says, by the sorest of storms or the chilliest of lands, but I'm not interested in storms or chill; I'd rather stick cynical thumbs in my ears than be lured out to sea by your sweet song. Emily insists you've never asked a crumb of her. From me you demand my final meal. You're not safe, you unassuming feathered thing, and if I sing along, I may be disappointed.
But sing I must, like it or not, because I've read the Book and I know the outcome and I see that I am called to join the chorus because I'm loved by a God who doesn't just offer a hopeful option or wistful thinking or blind optimism but is Hope, my only hope. To run from hope is to hope in myself, and that's a chilling thought if ever there was one.
He does promise, after all, that those who hope in him are never disappointed, and of course it's true --how could he ever disappoint? It's the "in him" that makes the difference, since he's the one, the only one, who never fails.
That's the pitch I'll tune my heart to.