At times on the road to conscious conception we hit large, jarring potholes. Sometimes we even end up with a flat tire.
It can be easy during these times to pull over to the side of the road, abandon our car, and walk back in the other direction.
Yet we also have the choice of grabbing a hold of hope, changing the tire, and slowly merging back onto the road to motherhood.
Hope, don’t forget to hear its chirping urging you onward. It is only a flat tire, and luckily we have many spares in the trunk.
By: Emily Dickinson
“Hope” is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul
And sings the tune without the words
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
I’ve heard it in the chillest land
And on the strangest sea,
Yet never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.