About once a year, I play with my hopes.
Hopes. Dreams. Future plans.
Everyone’s hopes are born differently.
Mine always begin as long feathery wisps that swirl and whisk into solid balls of light.
Glowing pearls that I can handle.
Press my fingers into their surface.
Bounce them against walls.
Toss them into the air and catch.
I play with my hopes once a year.
Cupping each one in my hands.
Rolling each one between my fingers.
Sighing at their incandescence.
At how beautiful they are.
But only in divine Hands can they be truly realized.
My hands are not the place for them.
So in the calendar squares before I turn another year, I collect each of my hopes, dreams, and plans…
And drop them…
Into God’s hands…
Where they belong.
For He is more than fit to take care of them.
More than capable to mold them into His will.
More than able to turn them from the toys I play with into a life I walk into.