Last night someone asked me what hope means to me.
I write the word often.
My hands can’t help it.
Emily Dickinson says “hope is the thing with feathers” and I think that’s beautiful, but I had to read the whole poem to understand what she meant.
I get it now.
And she’s right.
And I think that’s why my hands can’t help but write the word hope.
Hope is in me.
It is active.
It is breathing.
It is singing.
It is continuing. 
It is calling.

I’m not sure hope can be put into words and perhaps this is why I write about it so often.
Line after line I am attempting to put into words what cannot be put into words. 
This might sound useless, like walking toward a dead end, but for me it’s a therapeutic reminder of the truth that hope is real and it remains.

And yet, I’ve come to believe and see hope is the full assurance of what God will do.

Hope is a peace that continues through the chaos.

Hope is the beauty in the brokenness.

Hope is the certainty that remains in the uncertainty. 

Hope is the sun rising and setting and reminding us the light is on the way. 

And hope doesn’t let the story end, but it keeps our story moving forward. 

And that’s what I’ll keep doing.
I’ll keep moving forward.
And as I go, I’ll spread the hope that is pumping and pounding, rising and falling within.
And perhaps along the way I’ll see another side of hope and scribble down a more clear definition. 
Or maybe I’ll get to the end and learn hope wasn’t meant to be defined, but to be shared, lived, and enjoyed.

With hope,

Tanner Olson
Written to Speak

Listen to the poem Hope Remains

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