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talking to myself

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Why do we hope?



Why do we hope?

I was sitting today thinking about the past,

not my past,


the far past,

thousands of years ago,

so many lives,

lived fully,

over in a flash and mostly forgotten;

it makes me wonder,

what is left for us after we ourselves go?

We to will be looked upon as ancients,

a culture now lost in the sands of antiquity,

their anthropologist poking among our ruins,

our names forgotten,

all of our fears and anxious concerns gone.

I wonder at times why we bother,

perhaps it is because we believe there is more,

or hope there is,

is that not what faith is about,

making a choice to trust and move forward,

believing all this,

our process of living and dying,

actually has meaning?

Even if we know we could be wrong?

Why do we hope?

Maybe we do because we are responding

to an invitation to simply trust.


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