Hope Speaks
On the foam of illusion, you had built your house. That’s why it crumbled a thousand times, to the lapping of the waves. The sand of the beaches was the foundation of your buildings, and ruin was inevitable.
Your rules of the game were the calculation of probabilities and psychological constants, and the results are clear to see. But I have one final word to say to you at this dawn: You can still; hope is still possible; tomorrow will be better.
Let us begin again.
If until now there were ruins, from now on there will be castles of light pointing their prows toward eternal peaks. If until now you have reaped disasters, remember sparkling springs are approaching.
Behind the dark night are high mountains, and behind the nocturnal mountains the dawn comes galloping. It is only beautiful to believe in light when it is night.
Behind the silence, the Father breathes. Solitude is inhabited by presence, and up above, rest and liberation await us.
Come. Let’s begin again.
I was born one dark afternoon, on a bare hill, watered with blood, when everyone was repeating in chorus: all is lost; there’s nothing to be done; the Dreamer has died: dreams are over.
I was born from the womb of death. That is why death cannot destroy me. I am immortal because I am the firstborn daughter of the immortal God. Even if you tell me a thousand times that all is lost, a thousand times I will answer that we still have time.
If until now successes and failures have alternated in your life like days and nights, from now on, each morning Jesus will rise again in you and will blossom like spring on the dead leaves of your autumn. He will conquer selfishness and death in you. Yes, the Brother will take you by the hand and lead you through the transforming hills of contemplation. Your ancient banners will wave again: Fortitude, Love, Patience…
Purity will raise its naked silver head in your orange-tree courtyards, and beneath all the flowers of your garden, Humility will bloom, invisible. You will shine with the splendor of the ancient prophets among the innumerable people. And, seeing you, everyone will say: This is a miracle from our God.
Come. Let us begin again.
The poor will occupy the most privileged corner of your garden. Who are those who, like a swarm, flock to you? They are all the forgotten of the world, those who have no voice, no hope, no love. They come to drink from your springs lit by the Risen One.
Look: those stars, blue or red, twinkle from eternity to eternity. Be like them: do not tire of shining. Sow mercy, hope, and peace in the dry fields and on the rugged peaks. Do not tire of sowing, even if your eyes never see the golden ears of grain. The poor will one day see them.
Walk. The Lord God will be light for your eyes, breath for your lungs, oil for your wounds, a goal for your journey, a reward for your effort.
Come. Let us begin again.
Taken from the book “Show Me Your Face”: Conclusion. Section: Mourning between Discouragement and Hope by Father Ignacio Larrañaga.
