In the midst of
… grieving the loss of yet another friend
… learning that another friend’s husband’s dementia has taken an unexpected downward turn
… hearing the anguish of Americans devastated by the inability of the NRA to see the connection between assault rifles and the horrifying massacre of 19 children and 2 teachers and the shooting of 5 children and the grandmother of the perpetrator who continue to struggle in hospital to survive their physical wounds, all of them facing a lifetime of dealing with the physical, emotional and spiritual wounds of the slaughter
… mindful that the possibility of the reversal of Roe v Wade is on the horizon and will have devastating consequences for decades
… aware that people around the world are still homeless, still poor, still in pain, still dealing with mental/physical illness and COVID
… and unable to forget the images of the horror that continue in Ukraine, this photo speaks to me of life and death, darkness and light, shadow and hope.

Yes, hope.

Where is the hope?
It’s in the clear sky … the bright yellow colour in the flowers in the foreground … and the healthy green leaves beside them.

Where is the hope?
It’s in the words on a sign I read on a concentration camp wall that read “I believe in the sun, even when it’s not shining. I believe in the stars even when I see them not. I believe in God, even when God is silent.”

The presence of hope is always with us.
Sometimes – tangible. Sometimes – intangible.
Sometimes – visible. Sometimes – invisible.
Sometimes – audible. Sometimes – silent.
But it is always present.

May we have eyes to see it,
ears to hear it,
hearts to feel it,
and minds to believe it.

An aside, when I took this photo a few summers ago, I didn’t know why I did. Nor did I know why it seemed so important to have the Alberta rose flowers in the photo.

And then tonight, I noticed that while the dark clouds over the mountains in the background may look ominous, the pink flowers in the foreground are a gentle reminder that things aren’t always as they seem. And now I know why I took this photo.

© June Maffin
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