Sisters in Scripture
The Conversation Continues    01/26/2022
I love getting responses from my readers. The last message on hope struck a responsive chord in many. I have chosen two of my readers' responses to share.

Libby reminded me of Emily Dickinson's poem on hope:

HOPE IS THE THING WITH FEATHERS
Emily Dickinson, (1830-1886)

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.

Joyce thanked me for reminiscing and shared a memory from her own childhood and how she came to understand hope at an impressionable age--in a way that holds meaning for her still:

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Hope    01/12/2022

 

Almost time for WHY THESE WOMEN

Why These Women by Kathleen MacInnis KichlineThe editing process has been completed and we have begun the production phase. My hope is that by the next newsletter I will be announcing the publication date! 


Stay tuned...


 




 

I first remember musing on the word "hope” when I was in junior high. I looked out the school bus window at the slushy Connecticut countryside rolling by and weighed back and forth in my mind the relative weight of two words: "wish” and "hope.” Just the night before we’d gathered before the TV for The Wonderful World of Disney. A large, shared bowl of popcorn sat wedged among us on the couch as we dove in for handfuls. A spray of stars showered across our screen as Tinkerbell waved her wand and the music swelled, "When you wish upon a star, makes no difference who you are. When you wish upon a star, your dreams come true.”

It may be hard to believe today but back then, when Walt Disney said it was true, you believed it was. At least I used to, and my little brother and sisters, no doubt, still did. But I was almost thirteen now and on that particular February afternoon, I pressed my forehead against the foggy window and heard my own voice echo back from the cold glass, "Wishing doesn’t work.” I had made a point of watching for the first star to appear in the evening sky. "Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, I wish I may, I wish I might have the wish I wish tonight.” That was the star to wish upon and I had, many times. And I’d taught the little song to my brother and sisters, told them to squeeze their eyes closed and make a wish. I still assured them it was true just like I told them Santa was real—all part of an adult conspiracy of which I was now old enough to be a part.

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