How do I believe in life, in the face of death?

How do I practice hospitality while I am in self-preservation mode?

How do I share when there is a fear of scarcity?

How do I hope when the future seems so bleak?

What do I hold onto when there seems to be no cure, no solution?

When I give up all hope, what do I have left?

What is life without this frail shoot called “faith for a better tomorrow”? 

“It shall be well,” I tell myself despite the darkness that has descended upon me.

I hold onto the dying embers of my former existence.

I grab hope with trembling, worn-out hands.

“All will be well,” I shout to my haggard, fear-stricken soul.

I don’t know how, I don’t know when, but I will rise again.

We will rise again like the phoenix.

Tomorrow it shall be well; this is my hope.

It is the spring rain that waters the dry, parched, tormented mind of mine.