“Hope means hoping when things are hopeless, or it is no virtue at all… As long as matters are really hopeful, hope is mere flattery or platitude. It is only when everything is hopeless that hope begins to be a strength.” ~G.K. Chesterton
It doesn’t feel like harvest time. The autumn leaves have fallen away, and so have our hopes for a quick fix to this mad pandemic. Like the fields and trees, our optimism has gone bare. But barrenness is an illusion. Late fall is the time of ingathering, of storing up. Throughout history, people have celebrated the harvest not when the fields were full, but when they were bare. When the hard work of ingathering had been completed, and the storehouses were full. Hope is the same. It’s a storehouse, a time of huddling by the fires of memory. A time to remember that the barrenness of winter is an illusion. And that beneath the frozen ground, even now, the seeds planted by hope are preparing sprout in the spring.
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