Pale Gray

My feet push against the pale gray porch floor and I stare at the chipped paint, and the color. Pale gray. “I think I’ve given up hope,” I laugh dryly and think that maybe my heart is the same shade of pale gray.

Is a heart that’s stopped hoping pale gray? The question whispers through the branches of thoughts that weave through my brain, as my friend exclaims: “No, Renee! No!” She’s emphatic. “You can’t give up hope. You just can’t.”

To give up hope is worse than dying.  An hour later, I think this as I sit and journal. To give up hope is worse than dying.

I think about the woman who only touched the hem of Jesus garment. Her faith was so large, so incredible, her heart was so trusting…beating to the rhythm of  hope. For years, she’d bled a river of red. I try to imagine what she felt for those many years. I think of all the times I’ve asked myself, What’s wrong with me? Do I have some incurable disease? What if nothing can be done?  and I realize that this woman had far more right to ask those questions than I do.

Yet, she still believed after a decade. Here I am, after two years, asking…and wondering…and thinking that maybe it’s hopeless. Oh, where is my faith? Pale gray?

I love the ocean in a storm. The wind that whips, the waves that curl and splash with wild fury, foaming and churning up the shoreline. The clear blue of water turned pale gray in the throes of a gale. The pale gray – a wild beauty,thick and deep with passion and I imagine, with hope. For as the storm passes, the water recedes, and the pale gray oozes and flows back into the clear blue.

Perhaps if I dare, to reach into the waters, pale gray and stormy, I will swim in the waters, clear blue.