When I was learning to ride a bike, my Dad held gently onto the back of my seat. At the park by our old house, he would slowly push me and then I would ride as fast I could down the sidewalk. I usually liked knowing my Dad was right behind me in case I lost my balance and fell into the grass. However, one time I just wanted to see how far I could ride without my Dad’s careful gaze behind me. He pushed, and then I glided down the sidewalk, the wind blowing through my hair and the sun shining above me. I liked the feeling so much, that I kept pedaling faster and faster. “Brooke! Brooke!” I heard my Dad calling from behind me, but I ignored him. 
 
What happened next? Well, I eventually fell and lost my balance. Are we surprised? My Dad came sprinting to help me. My parents are very kind, gentle people but growing up they never shied away from telling me when I was wrong. And, in the park, my Dad told me I should’ve waited for him. That he knew I heard him, and I still kept riding as fast I could. 
 
I’m still that girl that likes to ride her bike as fast as I can. I’m a go-getter. If I have a goal, I work as hard as I can to achieve it. I plan out the steps that it will take to get to the next step and I do it. One of my favorite professors once told me that I don’t just daydream, but I do the work to make the dream happen. That’s why when things take longer to happen in my life, I can find myself wanting to pedal as fast as I can to get to the next destination. 
 
When summer began this year, it seemed to stretch out before me. I had already taken my planned summer trip. I wasn’t teaching. And I didn’t have any major projects to work on. A slow summer?  I didn’t know if I would be a fan. Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely adore summer. Maybe it’s being a July baby but summers bring me so much joy --- even the heat. I’d much rather sweat than shiver, which is why I barely made it through two Syracuse winters while in grad school. 
 
But sometimes slowing down, the desires that I’ve kept close to my heart come bubbling up to the surface. Timelines that I have in my head of when I’m supposed to reach certain goals are etched in my mind. Without something to check off my to-do list or a new big dream in my mind, I wonder if I’m falling behind?
 
One of my favorite stories in the Bible is in Joshua. The walls to get into Jericho are securely barred, but the Lord instructs Joshua and the Israelite army to march around Jericho once every day for six days to gain access to the city. On the seventh day, they would march around the city seven times with priests blowing trumpets. Then, he told the whole army to shout and the wall around the city will collapse.
 
Luckily I’m not Joshua, because I would’ve reacted like the guy in that slow-blink meme. Seriously, God? March around a city, blow some trumpets, and this is how you want me to win a battle? Can’t I get something a little more dramatic?
 
What I love about the Lord is his instructions are usually simple, even when I desire something grander. What were the Israelites and Joshua thinking as they marched around the city day after day? Did they wonder if the walls would actually fall on the seventh day? Or did they secretly think God was laughing at them as they marched around in circles? 
 
On one of those slow summer weeks in June, I stumbled upon this song while listening to a podcast. The lyrics filled my quiet apartment: I wanna move slowly. Cause this moment is holy. You’re never in hurry. So why ever would I be?
 
God often asks me to take slow, deliberate steps towards the future I’m dreaming about. And I’m starting to realize, it’s because of these that lyrics come up next: Search me and know me. Prune what you find. 
 
As Joshua and the Israelite army marched around Jericho for seven days, I wonder what was happening in them? What kind of faith was being built? What kind of trust in God?  What was God building in them before they could step into their next season? And what was God building in me this summer? 
 
As the song continues, this is the lyric that changed it all for me: The slower I go. The faster I arrive. 
 
Everything about life with Jesus is counterculture. If someone wrongs you, you’re supposed to turn the other cheek. Pray for your enemies. Love those who curse you. Don’t worry about anything. Pray about everything. I’ve learned that usually what comes to my mind first is the exact opposite of the way God would instruct me to go. 

So, maybe there’s something to the slow, deliberate steps to the future. Maybe, God is breaking things off, shaping, and molding me into the woman that can handle the future she’s praying about. And maybe, there’s moments this summer: days at the beach, long talks over dinner, a beautiful 4th of July day with my parents, mornings reading my Bible, and other memories that he wants me to cherish right here, right now. 
 
Last Sunday at church, I was late. As I ran out of my house, I knew that I would have to park in the overflow lot and would likely struggle to find a seat. Once I made it inside, I was flustered, but managed to find a seat way in the back of the auditorium. As worship began, my heart rate slowed. In front of me, I saw a woman signing to the music. Her hands soared in the air as the music did, and even though I know she couldn't hear the sounds the same way I did, she seemed content. I would've never noticed her if I didn't look up or take a second to breathe. 

If you keep reading the story about Joshua and the Israelites, you know that the walls in Jericho do eventually fall on the seventh day. They take over the city and win the battle. So, I know this moment in my life is temporary. I know that my marching will come to an end. I’ll make it to the other side. My prayers will get answered. And even on the other side of the wall, there will still be new battles to fight. One that God was equipping me to handle in this season of waiting. But even in the in between, I know there’s value here. There’s beauty here. And  I don’t have to ride my bike as fast I can to get to the next season. 

If you want to know my least favorite month of the year, it’s January. The sparkle of the holidays have faded and waking up New Year’s Day always feels daunting. The whole year stretches out before me. Instead of looking at the blank unplanned days with excitement, I feel overwhelmed. 

On one of those blah January days, I left church and ran smack dab into a close friend. We screamed and hugged because months had passed since we saw each other in person. She shared with me what her months leading up to January had been like. During our conversation, we ran into another friend, falling into more screams, laughs, and giggles. After a few minutes, we all joined hands and prayed; the noisy buzz of the church crowd fading. I can’t remember the exact words my friends prayed over me, but I do remember their hands squeezing mine. The hope I walked away with.

I recently heard a sermon from Sarah Jakes Roberts. She was talking about the moments that mark us. The big ones that pull us closer to God. You get the job or the promotion. Your loved one is healed. Your mental health gets better after a long season. You finally buy the house. You get married. You have the baby. The miracle moment. The clear evidence of God’s hand in your life, as if he was coming down to earth himself to say, “See, I’ve been listening to you all along.” After one of those big moments, it’s easy to move onto the next thing. To the next unanswered prayer. What hasn’t God answered on my long to do list? What situation is still the same in my life? But did you miss it already? Did you already go searching for the next thing? The next void to fill? As Sarah said, she didn’t want to miss it. Instead, each day she was going to search for God.

Once you start searching for God, trust me, you’ll find him. I found him on that day as my friends surrounded me in prayer. Sometimes you don’t need a miracle moment to feel God’s presence. I found God again, on another random weekday, when my mom and I sung along to Smokey Robinson in the living room. At a Saturday ballet class after a hard week, the music humming.  During a bookstore run on a Tuesday evening, flipping through the pages of a book, dreaming about my own novel and listening to my friend talk about her week. 

It’s also easy to search for other things that don’t you fill with you the hope God brings. Regrets about the past. Anxiety about the future. Comparing your life to someone else’s. The bigger unexpected problems that capture your attention: that phone call you didn’t see coming, a loved one gets sick or passes away, a breakup, job loss, miscarriage, divorce, or a financial issue. 

I haven’t walked through all the problems listed above, but I know what it feels like to walk through a heavy season, where all the days feel like January and God appears far away. Maybe, even the thought of searching for God makes you want to roll your eyes. Or even ask the question, could he be here in this pain too? 

The thing is even when we don’t want to search for God. He’s always searching for us. In Psalms, it promises ”If I go up to heaven, you are there; if I go down to the grave, you are there. If I ride the wings of the morning, if I dwell by the farthest oceans, even there your hand will guide me, and your strength will support me. but even in darkness I cannot hide from you. To you the night shines as bright as day. Darkness and light are the same to you.“

We can run all we want, but God always find us. He’s waiting to bring comfort, hope, and the light that doesn’t even compare to the temporary comforts we search for on the dark, heavy days. Will you receive it? 

No matter what happens this year, I want to keep searching for God. Finding him on the couch with my friends, as we watch movies and spend time that we won’t ever get back. Finding him in the prayers spoken over me. Finding him in the people God has given me to weather the highs and lows of life. Finding him in the prayers he answered and the dreams still to come. I know you’ll find him this year if you keep looking. 
​

​Thirteen summers ago, I graduated from high school.

The summer after high school is a weird time. It’s like part of your body is still here and the other part is floating in your next chapter. The part of my body still here was consumed with soaking up all the lasts: the last drive to the mall with my best friends, the last pool hang, the last movie nights, the last birthday I would celebrate with my high school friends.

The part of my body ready for college became consumed with questions about the future. Did I choose the right college? Should I have gone to college out of state?

Did it make sense to be an English major? Would I like Austin? Would I like my roommates? That summer is probably one of the first times I felt anxiety stealing joy from my present moments. At night, the “what if?” questions swirled at warp speed, pulling me away from sleep. Maybe, the anxiety came because up until then, my life had been predictable. I would wake up, go to school, learn something, laugh with my friends at lunch, walk to my mom’s elementary school when school let out, and then come home. Rinse and repeat.

​There was a monotony to it that I liked. No big surprises. No big questions. Moving 2.5 hours away from home wasn’t what caused me anxiety. I chose Austin for that very reason. It was close enough to not feel isolated, but far away enough to grow into myself. Instead, the anxiety stemmed from other big questions that couldn’t be answered immediately. Would I become a journalist? What would life be like after college?
 
The bottom line: How can I guarantee that my life will be good?
 
After my summer of questioning, I arrived at St. Edward’s still a little bit afraid. In my first semester, I saw many firsts: my first college parties, first time living with three women, first time going out to a club on Sixth Street, and the list goes on and on. In those moments, I couldn’t help but be present. They sucked me in, calling for me to not worry about the next day, sometimes not even in the next hour. I wanted to live.
 
Still, there was another side that craved certainty and answers. I can still remember one of the first moments God met me quietly. I was sitting in my dorm room, leafing through a daily devotional book my church gave me during a graduation ceremony for the seniors. God to me was still a distant figure. I didn’t talk to Him regularly. Our conversations were usually saved for emergencies. Help me. I’m scared. I promise I’ll be better this time. In my devotional book, I discovered a scripture in Proverbs that would later become a resounding truth in my life: Trust in the Lord with all your heart; and lean not on your own understanding; In all your ways, acknowledge Him and He shall direct your paths.

The words stuck with me. For the past few months, I had twisted myself into knots trying to figure out if my life would be good. I was trying to control something I couldn’t. I was treating my life like a game of chess. I’m going to put every piece down perfectly, so I can make sure I have a good life.  
 
Earlier this January, I sat in my living room and logged into my first Zoom class. Somehow, thirteen summers later, I’m teaching a magazine writing class at my alma mater. Before my students joined virtually, I felt those same feelings of nervousness that plagued me before I went off to college. What would be waiting for me on the other side of the screen? Could I be the best professor for them?
 
As you can see, thirteen years later, the craving for certainty hasn’t left me. I want a good outcome. A good life. Don’t we all? But, in that moment I logged on for my class, there was something else I thought about too. I thought about the 18-year-old who had so many restless nights the summer before college. In my restless nights, I never saw myself becoming a professor. But God did. 
 
These moments make me understand what C.S. Lewis says here in his book Mere Christianity, “Because God is forcing him on, or up, to a higher level: putting him in situations where he will have to be very much braver, or more patient, or more loving, than he ever dreamed of being before. It seems to us all unnecessary: but that is because we have not yet had the slightest notion of the tremendous thing He means to make of us.”
 
And that should tie up everything in a nice little bow, right? I was a nervous 18-year-old who became a magazine writing professor at my alma mater? Good for me. No, the thing with faith is that it’s not a nice little bow. It’s a messy knot that all of us will continue to untangle for the rest of our lives. God’s ways are mysterious and confusing. They don’t always wrap up in a way that we understand.
 
Our world is broken and messy. The last thirteen summers have been met with triumphant moments: graduating from college, getting a master’s degree, getting a job at my hometown paper, writing a book, getting a literary agent, and the list goes on and on. Blessings that yes, took dedication and hard work on my end, but were met with the unmerited favor and grace of God getting me into places I could’ve never been able to reach myself.
 
But it’s also been met with unanswered questions and broken moments: a mom dealing with a disease that has no cure, loss of loved ones, and worries about the future.
 
I’ve seen that striving for a “good life” is pointless. Putting the chess pieces all in the right place won’t get me anywhere.  What God has done in my life is far bigger than anything I could’ve dreamt up on a chess board. Instead, it takes partnership. I do what I need to do on my end and then surrender and trust that God will continue to fulfill His purpose for my life.
 
So now, instead of asking, how can my life be good?  I ask myself how can I honor today?

Earlier this year, I saw a blue fringe purse hanging on the rack inside a Heights area boutique. Now, I’m not a huge purse girl. I usually just want something cute and reliable. My bags stay with me. They hang on coffee shop chairs, are tossed in the backseat of my car, and make it to the seat next to me on the plane.
 
But, this bag I saw wasn’t about practicality. It was just beautiful and staring back at me in my favorite color. When I looked at the price, it wasn’t awful but I also had been trying to save money. Inside the boutique, there were pretty dresses, blouses, and pants, but my eye was on the blue purse.
 
Once I decided to not buy it, I walked back out to 19th Street with my friend. I couldn’t afford the purse, but I could afford some chicken quesadillas and a margarita at Goode Company. It was one of those crisp and clear January days, where the sky looks a perfect blue and the sun shines brilliantly because we’ve gone through a string of gray days.
 
Days later, after the margarita and the quesadilla, I found myself still thinking about the blue bag. It’s just a bag, I think to myself. What is it about some gifts in our life, no matter how small, you can’t help but fixate on what you don’t have? 
 
I’ve always been a dreamer. I can think of the best possible scenario for any situation. I can also think of the worst. Oftentimes, when I’m in one room, I find myself thinking about something else. I’ve found it’s easy to dream, but harder to face the reality of your situation.
 
It’s often in long waiting seasons that I fixate on what I don’t have. I grow impatient and it feels like the clock is ticking. When I’m driving sometimes, it always feels like when I’m late for something, that’s when a train likes to block traffic. Especially on Westheimer! I sit there, impatiently tapping my foot, so close to my destination but also feeling so far away. I wonder if I’ll ever get there. The wait feels never-ending.
 
In one of my favorite movies, “The Map of Tiny Perfect Things,” that I stumbled upon shortly after the winter freeze in 2021, the main character’s mom tells her this about time. 
 
“It’s true that we’re losing time every day, all the time, until one day it’s gone. But you’re gaining it too. Every second, perfect moments, one after another, until by the end you have your whole life. You have everything. And it costs you everything. But it’s worth it. I promise it’s worth it.” 
 
What she said hit me like a ton of bricks. What do I already have in my life that I don’t already see? What am I gaining in my everyday moments that I can’t ever get back? 
 
During the pandemic, I usually met up in Buffalo Bayou with one of my best friends to walk. It was our weekly escape. We would chat about everything --- the news, the upcoming election, our families, COVID, jobs, friendships. We covered it all. As we circled the bayou, our mouths never stopped moving. You would think that after years of friendship, we might run out of something to say. But that’s the best part about being around people that just understand you, that know your soul. Back then, I thought about all the things I’d rather be doing than stuck in a pandemic with walks in the park as one of my only escapes. I could be on a cruise. I could be sitting in a café in Paris.
 
During that summer, around my birthday, I was getting ready to turn 28. A few days before my birthday, I found out a longtime source I covered for a story passed away. I was gutted. Hearing about COVID all year long was one of the first times I remember being confronted with how fragile life could be. Everything around me felt unsafe, insecure. That it could crumble at any second. And in turn, my anxiety was through the roof. I didn’t really say all of this to my friend who I took walks with, but she knew. One day, she showed up with a chocolate cake she made from scratch on my front porch with the number 28. My heart burst.
 
Here was a moment that I would never get back again, but I would replay over and over again. 
 
In March, I went back into the boutique on a whim. It was a Friday full of possibility. The sky was clear and the sun beamed down on my back. I just spent the last couple hours, working, laughing and catching up with two of my best friends. I wondered as I walked closer to the store: Could the bag possibly still be there?

As I made it inside the store, I looked around the boutique and picked out a pair of white jeans. I made small talk with the owner. After a few minutes, I finally asked the question: “I saw a blue bag in here a couple months ago. It was Kate Spade and fringe. Is it still here?” 
 
To my surprise, the bag was hanging on the mannequin at the front of the store. No one had bought it yet. My gift was right there in plain sight. She gave me a discount and when I got home, I pulled it out onto my kitchen table, letting the sun shine from the windows onto the blue fringe. My cat brushed her head against the bag, rubbing it slowly back and forth. Even she was obsessed. 
 
This was just a bag. Something that I probably would get tired of and eventually forget about, but it was like my 28 chocolate cake. A gift in plain sight. A gift all for me.
 
The blue bag is just a material gift, but I wonder how many other gifts God has waiting in plain sight that I’m walking right past. That I’m too blind to notice. A lot of the best gifts God gives have nothing to do with something I can carry on my arm. I realized this during the pandemic, when I woke up every day breathing clear in and out of my lungs as others struggled on a ventilator. I could walk next to my best friend in Buffalo Bayou, but some lost their best friend that year. 
 
Each day is another chance to hang onto one of those perfect moments that you may not ever get to experience again. Each day God has a gift waiting for you: sun shine on your back, breath in your lungs, a new fresh start all over again. But do you see it? Or is it easy to ignore?

It’s easy to forget the goodness of God described in Psalm 23: “The Lord is my shepherd. I lack nothing. He leads me beside quiet waters. He restores my soul.” But don’t. Hold tight to it. The goodness. The gifts. All right there for us to take hold of every day. 
​

​What are you doing here?
 
This is a question I’ve been thinking about a lot lately. It’s a question God poses to Elijah after he’s freaked himself out, run for his life, and ends up in a cave---far away from his original calling. What are you doing here, Elijah?
 
Life is complicated. It’s full of beautiful and broken moments. There are some so achingly perfect you wish you could drink it in for days, but there are the other days where it's hard to put one foot in front of the other. Life can exhaust you, so much so that you end up like Elijah. He had a great a calling and a great purpose. In the Bible, Elijah was a mighty prophet who encouraged others to return to God when they were worshipping others. He also saw God work miracles (hello?! fire raining down from the sky) but a threat from Jezebel on his life sends him running. He ends up at a tree, where he lays down and asks God to take his life. Instead, an Angel of the Lord appears and gives him some food and drink, and he rests. Basically, God says, “Shhhh, I get that you’re tired. But here’s some bread.” That maybe free advice for some of you, who are tired: Go to Torchy’s. Get a breakfast taco.
 
But seriously, Elijah’s story makes me feel less ridiculous. Haven’t we all had those moments? We see God do something miraculous in our lives. Our family member is healed. We get that job promotion. We are becoming the person we always hoped we could be. Then, something else comes swinging in, causing us to forget and run away in fear. We lay down at whatever tree like Elijah. Our tree can be fear. Our tree can be sadness. It can be regret, guilt, shame, whatever.
 
And that’s okay. We’re so obviously human and life is so obviously real. It can come in big and swooping, making us forget the question that God poses to Elijah, and one I’m posing to all of you reading this blog post: What are you doing here?
 
Why did God place you on this earth? Was it so that you could lay down at your tree, mope, and groan about all the ways that life isn’t going the way you thought it would? Or have you gotten so deep into your feelings that you’ve forgotten the bigger purpose? I’m not talking about a big purpose either, one where everybody knows your name and you save the world. Purpose can be misunderstood like that. I’m talking about your everyday reason for waking up in the morning.
 
We all have one. We all have a small difference that we can make in the world. A ripple of change that we can affect with our tiny steps. Stop thinking of purpose as this big, huge thing and start small. Who are the people in my life I can encourage? Who is someone I can help today? What is one step I can make this week towards a dream I have?
 
Life is like a quilt. That’s what Bishop TD Jakes described in one of his more recent sermons. Quilts are usually sewn together with different patchworks, patterns, and designs. It doesn’t look like it would go together, but when it’s all said and done, you get something beautiful. He went further to say that people are like quilts because we’re complicated or at least he said authentic people are complicated. One minute, we’re full of faith. The next minute, we’re full of fear. One minute, we’re pursuing this dream and passion wholeheartedly. The next day, we’re doubting ourselves. We’re humans. We’re Elijah’s.
 
And yet, as he says in his sermon: we are fearfully and wonderfully made.
 
Scripture goes as far to call us God's masterpieces. A masterpiece sounds like a high calling, right? But I think about the process of a masterpiece. The Mona Lisa’s, the Maya Angelou books, the Picasso works of art didn’t start out as such. There were probably a lot of rough drafts, false starts, and balled up pieces of paper thrown into the trash before we got to see the final finished work. That’s what’s happening to us in life. We’re constantly regenerating. Taking a step here. Falling down. Starting over. Then, beginning all over again, with that same renewed hope, that same vision: What are you doing here?
 
I was reminded recently of part of my here, in these verses found in Matthew 5:
Let me tell you why you’re here. You’re here to be salt-seasoning that brings out the God-flavors of this earth. Here’s another way to put it. You’re here to be light, bringing out the God-colors in the world.
 
Light is why I’m here. There’s a light that God always refreshes me with, a strength, a reminder, a hope for more, that I want to continue to spread to those around me. I think we can all start with that, right? There’s so much dark in the world and so much heaviness happening daily.
 
Couldn’t we all start by just being a light?

 
“A sun grows our bodies. But only we can make each other better.”
 
Back in April, I asked Inprint poetry buskers (super talented people who literally write a poem in minutes based on whatever topic you throw at them) to pen a poem for me on faith, hope and healing. You know, super easy and light topics. The line I quoted above is from the last line of the poem. A zinger, that still shoots straight to my heart.
 
Hope, one of the words I asked the poet to write about, is one I’ve been thinking a lot about lately. If you look around, there’s a lot of doom and gloom in the world---feels like more so than normal. I mean, how can it not feel that way? Last month, we had a shooter target African-Americans at a grocery story on a Saturday in Buffalo. Then, just a couple weeks later—19 children and two teachers---gone, just like that, right before the end of the school year. It’s like the trauma since 2020 keeps building, not letting up. The day after the shooting at Robb Elementary I realized somewhere midway through the day, was also the same day as the anniversary of George Floyd’s death. Grief upon grief.
 
And besides the world events, we all have stuff that we’re going through. We have our own trials and tribulations and our personal grief that we’re holding onto in our hearts. When I asked for the poem about hope, this was before all those world events unfolded, because I think hope is always something I’m striving for, something I’m trying to cling onto.
 
If you look at me from the outside at first glance, I’m a pretty positive person. It most likely comes from my parents who are some of the most positive people I know. It’s not a fake, kind of a sugary sweet positive either. It’s rooted in the reality that, yeah, bad stuff happens, but they’re the kind of people who always press on and keep putting one foot in front of the other. I know part of the positivity comes from their faith, being deeply rooted in something bigger than themselves. And it also comes from their love for each other, how they were raised by loving families and the hope they find in threaded in their everyday. But even in all my positivity, there are days that I still struggle for hope.
 
Which brings me back to my poem and this line: “You look up and see clouds crashing into each other, thunder and lightning flashing, like hope, like faith, like healing.”
 
 I wonder why the poet decided to use thunder and lightning as a simile for hope. Was the poet asking us to see hope in the thunder and the lightning? That seems like a ridiculous question, right?
 
But, that made me start to think back to Hurricane Harvey. The endless days of rain. The people who lost their homes, who lost loved ones. No hope in sight.  I remember finding out one of the men I had reported on for months for the Houston Chronicle inside Harris County Jail, had drowned on his way to work. Joseph Dowell, who was affectionately called Unc, had just been released from jail the year before. His whole life was starting over again.
 
And now, it was snuffed out.
 
Where was the hope?
 
Back in summer 2016 before his death, Unc had been inside Harris County Jail, unsure of whether he would ever get out. But inside the jail, there was hope brewing. He became a part of re-entry program for those who had substance abuse problems. He healed himself with the help of others and grew stronger. He was able to take steps forward.
 
At this funeral, his steps forward were recognized by elected officials that he probably never dreamed would ever be there. Mayor Turner named a day after him. A flag at the U.S. Capitol had been raised in his honor.
 
Sure, as I wrote the story, my heart ached that this man---with so much still ahead of him---had to die. But, I saw the tiny shreds of hope that had been weaved for Dowell, starting in a jail cell, and now at his funeral, in the midst of all that thunder and lightning.
 
I think it’s easy to not to find the hope. To cascade into a sea of despair. To just let life and the days pass you by because well, the world kind of sucks right? But, I think it’s wiser to look for the hope, especially on the thunder and lightning days. Because it’s always there, tucked into those moments that you may miss, if you don’t look close enough. I know for me, I also have my faith that feeds me the hope when I can’t seem to find it. I look up and around me at what God created, and it reminds me that there’s light.
 
The line in my poem said it best: “If there is proof of a higher power its that flowers light up our days and fill our noses with the memories of everyday that came before.”
 
I say all of that not to downplay the grief and the sadness that so many are in because of the darkness happening in the world. It truly, sucks. And when you think about it in that way, hope seems a bit silly.
 
But this brings me back to that ending line of the poem:  Only we can make each other better. 
 
I know without the support of those inside the jail, Dowell would’ve never been able to get out. And I know without the support of one another, we’re not going be able to find the hope on the days that we can’t seem to reach it. We can look up at the sun God created all we want, but the poet is right: only we can make each other better. Only we can take steps to leave this world better than we found it.
 
I’ve realized that we magnify hope for others. The light in us, that comes from the One bigger than ourselves, is what’s going to move us forward, and it’s what’s going to make us better.
 
And, I’ll leave you with this from Unc, something he said earlier in the summer before he died.
 
"When you got hope, you can achieve; you can excel. When you lose hope, you lose reality of what's important to you."