[def-uhnishuh n]

  1. what tethers me to now, and lays open the promise to what’s ahead

HopeHolds are the hearts that just don’t have to be there.  The 33’s and 313’s in the oddest of places.  They’re words and Scriptures and pictures and people, wrapping hope and healing around shattered shards.

HopeHolds look like the graffitied electrical box right outside our hotel room door.  Like God in His glory, the morning after a nightmarish night.  Like hearts in the fire on the first birthday we had to mark.  The one without Jake’s feet firmly planted on this earth.

HopeHolds look like the butterfly pacing me up the hill on the hardest part of my run.  Staying just far enough ahead to entice me forward with its magnificent color and effortlessly fluttering wings, leading me right to the crest where any breath I had left caught itself at the sight of two mama deer and their brand-new, legs still wobbly, ladybug-spotted fawns, happily munching on lunch.

They’re everywhere, these HopeHolds.  And thank goodness.  Without them, grief can all too easily redefine what bottomless looks like.

HopeHolds catch the free-falls and offer up a grasping point, creating space to simply catch my breath, and then slowly take the next.  A place to remember the reminder to look, to seek, and to simply let it in.  Again and again and again.


What tethers me to now, and lays open the promise to what’s ahead.

See more HopeHolds @FindingMy313