hope comes in the morning

Emily Dickinson wrote, “Hope is the thing with feathers.” The more I live, the more I understand what she meant.

Hope rarely storms in loudly. It doesn’t demand attention or proof. It simply perches — sometimes quietly, almost unnoticed — deep inside the soul.

Soft. Steady. Patient. And somehow… even in storms… even with a shaky voice... it sings.

But lately, if hope has felt harder to reach. That’s not because it has disappeared, but because the world is groaning, shaking, and grumbling.

Nationally. Globally. Politically.

We are living in a season where fear is continuously amplified, conflict is normalized, and headlines feel heavier than our hearts were built to hold.

So hope feels fragile in times like these — almost sliver-thin. And yet, somehow, she remains.

Both fragile and fierce. Because Hope doesn’t just come in the morning — it also comes through our seasons of mourning.

Through grief we didn’t ask for.
The losses we never saw coming.
And moments that shake us to our core.

Hope is often born in the very places where fear tried to bury us.

Because true hope is more than a feeling. It’s a spiritual resonance, a memory. A whisper from God reminding us that the story is not over.

And this is the part where the Serenity Prayer becomes more than words — it becomes like breath: “God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference…”

Hope is not passive. It’s discerning. Because it knows what's yours to hold and what is God’s alone.

Hope can anchor you right where you are, even if the world around you feels unanchored and uncertain.

And somewhere between Emily Dickinson’s feathers and the wisdom of the Serenity Prayer is another hopeful and soulful sound that India.Arie gave us: “There’s hope. It doesn’t cost a thing to smile. You don't have to pay to laugh..."

Because hope isn’t always grand or poetic.

Sometimes it’s practical. Sometimes it’s the small thing that helps you breathe deeply again. Sometimes it’s the ordinary, everyday choice to find beauty in a world that feels chaotic.

That is the hope Advent calls us back to because light is promised long before it’s visible. It’s the season where God quietly whispers: “Morning is coming.”

So today, even if hope feels small… or it’s trembling… or feather-light…

Tend to it. Protect it. Hold it close.

Let it sing softly inside you until morning breaks.