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From the cave
All I can think of is that scene in the hunger games when Katniss has to go out to get the medicine for Peeta. She knows it is the only way to save him but to do so she has to take a risk. She had to be willing to take action to get the thing.
She had to move.
She had to risk something to get what was promised to her.
Because sometimes we have to choose risk to get the thing we need to keep moving forward.
Sometimes we have to choose to risk so we can get to safety. Like when youāre playing tag or hide and seek as a kid and in order to get to home base you have to take a chance at running through danger.
To get where you need to be you sometimes have to move through a space that is scary.
I think right now, Iām a little like Peeta in the cave. Iāve been through a lot. Iām going through the motions.
But I think Iām supposed to risk something to get to home base.
Because honestly I understand not wanting to leave a place that feels safe to go through a place that isnāt safe to get through to a place that is actually home base.
I think Iām too timid right now.
Iām not sure how thatās going to change.
Hell, Iām not even sure what home base is.
I just know that right now the comfort of sitting on my hands is starting to not outweigh the fear of finally moving.
I started this on a Sunday and Iām finishing it on a Monday and Iāll get back to you if I figure it all out.
I guess I can end it like this:
Sometimes we have to jump to prove the parachute still works.
With love,
Meg
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Again and again for camp
Iāve been trying to think if I have a moment at camp from this year, a conversation, a time, anything with a camper that sticks out.
There are pieces. Sitting with some LIT boys at lunch who were so polite and respectful to me sitting at a table.
A camper Iāve known for a few years asking if he could tell me Bible verses in Spanish and then being excited that yes I could understand him.
Sitting with my best $10 impulse purchase at target of manga blocks for 20+ minutes at the pool with a camper trying to build the creations on the paper.
Getting asked pre 8am to come to the boys cabins so I could sign a soccer ball.
But, this year I think what I truly realized was the impact of consistently showing up.
Iāve been going to camp for 14 years. There are people who have showed up for 25+ years to camp.
This year I was reminded that showing up matters.
Kids were able to get off busses at a new camp space and see people they knew. They were able to have grounding in an unfamiliar place.
(Though obviously the first thing a certain 11 yr old boy asked me wasnāt how I was but āMiss Meg howās your cousin CG5?ā- not my cousin but the kiddo of my cousin š)
Seeing them recognize and note people theyāve seen year after year.
Seeing them know people came back.
This year while telling my first Bible story I was talking to the kids about who I was and I realized Iāve been flying back to CA for camp for 9 years.
I told the kids that.
I donāt need recognition for flying, I just need the kids to know that the matter to me to get on a plane.
I will show up for them.
Again and again.
I will show up for the people I serve with.
Again and again.
Showing up for those kids matters to me. Because it changes something deeply.
Showing up rewrites DNA that tells them no one shows up. No one cares.
Even though for me; itās one week (physically) a year. It still matters.
When those kids get off a bus and they see people who have shown up again and again.
It changes things.
I donāt know who you show up for or who shows up for you, but I need you to know how deeply it matters that you do.
I need you to know that your presence absolutely changes someoneās perception of their own self.
Your showing up MATTERS.
Whether you believe you bring something to the table or not.
Whether you say the ārightā words or not.
You just choosing to show up shifts something.
So please, for all of us, for the one.
Show up.
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The year of the porch auntie: RFK 2026
To my dear Royal Family;
What a week.
Iām going to honest; there were so moments over the course of the last year of my life that I didnāt think I was going to get to do camp with you guys this year. Sitting in hospital beds and using walkers and being unable to breath.
I couldnāt put hope in something that I thought maybe wouldnāt happen.
But thankfully I had you all to borrow hope from.
It came in the form of a virtual circle of prayer and a box of cards and treats. It came in the form of texts and messages and so much love.
And because of that hope I was able to keep moving forward.
Because of that piece of hope I was able to come to camp.
And then we all showed up.
It was a new year, a new campground. New challenges, so many unknowns; from the bathroom systems to the chapel to the menu.
And I truly believed we handled each moment with grace. I was so completely honored to be a part of it.
I am so proud of us for this week.
To the teen staff for running around a new environment.
To the counselors for dealing with bathrooms and showers and being a little more separated than we have been before.
To all the different activity spaces and coaches for figuring out how to set up in a new space.
To the staff waking up early, or staying up later to being present in different ways.
To the deans for having to rework how they cared for their buildings without actually being in the same building space.
And to our directors for handling each question, each logistic, each fire every single day.
I am proud of us.
I had so many moments at camp this week, from spa day with the grandmas to making it to 10:35 in morning chapel (or very close to it) every day. Watching the LITs get to be stage crew and be so excited about it. playing mangablocks at the pool and also swimming in the vomit pool (iykyk). Making it through LIT graduation without actually crying. Being a porch auntie. Walking a mile to a coffee shop before camp. Almost tearing up over a bowl of lucky charms.
It was a good year. It was tiring, it was learning my own limitations and where and when I can move past them (sorry Jana I missed your concert). It was a year of seeing what we could do and then figuring out how we can do it better in the next. It was a year of new possibilities and I believe we took them. It was a year of sitting outside girls dorms at 6am and quietly waving to the counselors as they slipped out to shower. It was a year of stepping into help each other.
I will repeat: I am so proud of us. We showed up for each other, we showed for ourselves and most importantly; we showed up for the kids.
I am honored every year to serve with you all. Itās my absolute favorite week for the year when I get to see how each of you show up for the kids.
Thank you for showing up with me.
My prayer for each of you as you read this is that every moment of exhaustion, every bead of sweat and every dusty moment of your days last week are returned to you. That God plants little nuggets along the way for you to find (like the ducks and sheepās and the Jesusās and even that weird creepy worm thing) and that your sleep and your joy and your energy is restored to more than it was before. I pray until we show you at camp again that you are surprised and blessed and reminded, just as I pray are kids are everyday, that you are immensely loved and that what you do matters.
I have some more tears to cry and more words to write but I canāt express how grateful I am that I got to do camp with you all again this year.
Just as the kids are a part of my why; all of you Jesus people loving like Jesus are just as much.
So hereās to the year ahead and to taking these moments and the truths that camp brings with us.
You are loved.
With love,
Miss Meg
PS to the text thread- thank you thank you for holding me up all year. Your words, your friendship and your presense in my life even from two states away means more than Iāll ever be able to explain š
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Jesus people who love
I wrote this in my journal last week at church and tonight sitting outside at camp with a sprite I typed it out.
Iāve been thinking a lot about my camp āwhyā. As the Bible teacher my role is to show the love of God through the stories of the Bible that I share.
To show a Father who loves unconditionally.
And it really got me thinking: how are we supposed to show the love of a father to some who may have never known it.
But, no matter what, every year I go with the purpose to be an adult in the lives of these kids who show them love no matter what.
Thatās it. Thatās my bottom line.
Because truly, nothing else matters if they donāt see love in the people who claim to love God. Nothing matters if the people who love Jesus donāt love like Jesus.
I go to love the kids, the teens, the adults on the mountain.
Itās a week of insanity, caffeine,laughter, walkie talkies, singing, dancing, woodworking, activities and (most likely) tears.
And there will be a bunch of Jesus people who are loving like Jesus.
Thatās also my favorite part of camp.
Seeing humans Iāve known, some for 20+ years, being outside of their comfort zones, away from their families and jobs, loving on and showing up for these kids.
Every year I go to camp in some ways with a little less than I had before.
And truthfully, every year I wonder if Iām the right person, if I have what the kids need, if Iām enough.
But, in that every year God reminds me that wherever I show up- He shows up.
No matter how Iām feeling or if I am less prepared or my body isnāt bodying.
Wherever we show up He shows up.
So right now, on this mountain there are a bunch of people who are choosing to spend a week loving like Jesus so kids can feel the love of a Father.
And right now; there are kids sleeping in beds getting ready to join us in this adventure.
If you think about us this week send us some vibes of health and hope and energy.
With love,
Meg
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40:WTF
Last week I said the words āIām so ready for this hellscape of a 40th year to be overā.
And honestly, I mean it.
If you know me, if youāve read my writing, you know that Iām someone who is fully capable of holding two emotions in my hand. I live by it.
Because I feel to let yourself be ruled by one emotion- sadness, joy, grief, anger- and not to make space for a second, not to hold the belief that emotions can coexist you will find yourself missing out on the things you can pick up along the way.
I will not mince words: this year has been fucking hard.
Even starting from the beautiful, perfect weekend I turned forty- it was the best, but my body was unknowingly continuing to shut down. I was in pain unable to move quickly, pushing through all of it.
I feel as if I lost the entirety of the first half of this year. June to December was spent in pain, in the hospital, unmoving, terrifying.
I spent a lot of the year in grief. Grieving what I had lost: moments with friends, trips, celebrating those around me, being present. I had to grieve my body and what it had been and what it had become.
I have spent a total of 3 weeks in the hospital. I spent a good month being unable to walk downstairs with making sure someone was around. I couldnāt get in and out of bed. I would go days without seeing another person. One night walking back from the bathroom my body collapsed at about 2am and I had to lay there to figure out how to pull myself off the floor when I had no strength in my body to do so.
My list could go on and on.
But in all that I also hold strength and hope and the knowledge that all of that; all the hell, that terror, that pain, I got through it.
I did it.
Then, just about a month ago, getting on a plane to try to make it in time to say goodbye to my dad.
To be frank, Iām still fresh with that grief. Writing both of my parents obituaries before I turned 41 is something I donāt wish on anyone. Mourning my parents, my childhood and the realization that there is no one on the other end of the phone. Saying goodbye to my dad is something I still havenāt completely come to terms with.
This year has been undoubtedly the hardest year of my life.
Today in church when I 100% didnāt want to be there I heard words incredibly clearly.
The Lord is close to the broken-hearted.
I have been utterly broken-hearted this year.
But, in all of it the Lord has been close.
Heās been there in every moment where a friend came to hold my hand or help me shower, or take me to an appointment. Heās been there when Iāve been unable to sleep or when Iāve been trying to make myself eat.
Heās been there in prayer circles and care packages and cards and people showing up.
This year has been heartbreaking. I have been lonely, in pain, scared, gut wrenchingly broken sad.
But Iāve been more surrounded in my heartbreak than I ever have before.
If you take anything away from this year of my life, this year 40; I want it to be this, please know you can hold two things in your hands at the same time.
You can hold hope and grief.
Joy and pain.
You can hold strong to the belief it will get better while still feeling devastated itās happening.
You can hold two things.
Thatās all.
With love,
An almost 41 year old
Meg
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honoring the way he loved
My father did not like Mexican food.
But every Friday, he and my mom would go to Deli Casa, a local Mexican restaurant, because my mother loved Mexican food.
Thatās a way my dad loved his bride (he absolutely still complained about it).
Iāve been trying to think about the things Iāve learned from my dad, the catchphrases (most not suitable for mass publication) and the moments that changed me.
When it comes down to it, what Iāve learned from my dad is how to love quietly. How actions are love disguised as every day monotony.
Itās not in the big declarations. Itās how as a manager at FedEx instead of buying bagels and fruit, the day before Christmas for the employees he made fresh Belgian waffles, sausage gravy and had my mom make biscuits. Itās how when he knew I was having a rough time in college he overnighted me a singular pack of Keebler soft chocolate chip cookies because he used to buy them for me as a kid and I called them thank you daddies. Itās how he LOVED his grandkids so much that he went to a KISS concert with his grandson and was so excited about it. Itās how he talked to me about how proud he was of the fathers his sons had become. Itās showing up for people who needed a Santa. Itās how he had nicknames for all of us as absurd as they might have been.
My list could go on and on.
I think in the highs and lows of my dad all of us kids and grandkids and observes could say that we watched our dad, papa, Santa love in the quiet and the loud.
And I can use the Royal we to say that we all got a seat to see how Andy Reeve loved and grew in more and more love and appreciation for his wife.
He loved his bride.
I have more and more words I need to write about my dad. I have words I need collect and stories I need to stack stones for, but in this moment I have to be grateful for the ways I learned to love from my dad.
More words to follow, more things to be said, but for now I sit with the legacy of love that grew and a love that changed and expanded and became all that it was.
With love,
Meg
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My own 4-letter word
One of the concepts that stuck with me, that I found so beautiful upon learning about in my Bible classes in college was about the rule of first mention.
Essentially, when a word was first mentioned in the Bible (the originally translated word) the meaning behind it was how it was meant to be read the rest of the time in was mentioned. When we would do word studies and weād have to sift through to find the beginning, to find the way it was all tied together.
I think it was the that I made the connection that God was a storyteller. That he wanted to leave foreshadowing and theme and bits and pieces to pick up. He wanted to leave so that we might be able to untangle story that from first glance have no bearing but when we dig deep we see the unearthed path left behind.
That the meaning of a word could be more important than just what it says on page; that it could carry story upon story.
Iāve been thinking about words in my story that grab onto the meaning of first mention that for good or bad has dragged itself through my life and made a mark.
And one of those words is one I truly canāt stand: resilient.
And Iāve been trying to go through my brain to find why I canāt stand the word as much as I do.
I think that some of it is from working with kids and the thought that children are resilient. Something about it always rubbed me the wrong way. It felt like a reaction to kids having trauma or traumatic experiences was not to work on making them better but to respond with ākids are resilientā. It never settled with me that it was the thought.
And for myself, my resilience felt like a reminder that I had gone through something.
In a book I read recently by Lacey Day, two of the characters were talking about the word resilient and this is what they said:
āAnd the worst part? People kept calling me resilient. Like I was some warrior goddess in cute bootsā āThat word,ā he murmurs, and itās not just agreement, itās something low and rough in his voice that makes my stomach dip, āI hate that word, itās a nice way of saying you survived something terrible and we donāt know what to do with your sadness, so hereās a pat in the back and a vague compliment.ā
Thatās why I do not like the word resilient.
But.
Iām coming to terms with the fact that maybe Iām the one that supposed to do something with the word resilient.
Maybe Iām the one whoās supposed to be changing the word and what itās about.
Over the last 8 months Iāve been told over and over that I am resilient. And truth be told I have to grit my teeth each time.
Because I donāt want to have to be resilient.
But, at the end of the day, I am.
I have been built into a tough old broad like my mom and I chose to keep fixing going no matter what.
I am not positive for positives sake but I do choose to move forward even when it feels like the world wants me to stop.
And those things, those moments, those events have made me resilient.
They have refined the places that were deemed broken and strengthened the places that got lost in the muck.
I still will probably bristle at the word resilience. I still will be an advocate of doing everything in my power to not be a reason a child has to learn resilience.
But, I have to the terms that maybe, Iām supposed to change the way I see the word resilience.
I donāt know what your word is. I donāt know what makes you bristle at the mere sound of it.
But I do know that it probably means you are meant for that word.
Whatever it is.
With love,
Meg
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the ugliness of healing
I canāt confirm or deny that for longer than Iād like to admit that Iāve absolutely been giving God the cold shoulder.
I am sitting here, listening to a favorite album of mine, drinking my favorite beer and staring at a blank page so I took a deep breath and just asked āok God where should I go?ā
And from another table, in the same room, he looked at me like āwhere should you go? Why would you go? Iām right hereā. Then, a flash of images flew across my brain like a montage in a show that was speed running time. It was snapshots through the past few months showing me every moment where God was in the room with me, while I sat silently, more hurt and angry than I really wanted to admit.
Because Iāve been trying really hard not to just be pissed off.
Iāve been trying really hard to not admit this is the loneliest Iāve ever felt in my life.
Iāve been trying really hard not to stack the things Iāve deemed offenses to my person.
Iāve been trying really hard to force the light, when I think Iāve needed to acknowledge the darkness.
Iāve been trying really hard because if I donāt what will I be left with?
So, right now, in this brewery, I think itās time to be a little more brave than I want to be.
Because I donāt and havenāt felt like enough for any part of my life for a very long time.
And I think somewhere along the way Iāve stopped being able to try.
I lost a lot of last year to a body not bodying and I have a feeling Iām still trying to climb out of the hole that I found myself in because of that.
Iāve been feeling a step behind, just outside of the circle and just truthfully; bone crushingly alone.
Iāve forced myself to look at everything logically, tried to fit things into boxes so I feel less like an island, so I feel less vulnerable.
I think I havenāt wanted to acknowledge God in the room because I donāt want the reminder of the proof that Iāve crawled out of this place before and I can do it again.
Because even if Iāve had a village giving me supplies for a ladder at the end of the day, I have to climb the rungs.
Iāve been beating myself up writing all these words, a voice in my head telling me Iām not grateful, that I have no right to be angry.
That how dare I, other people have had it worse.
My emotions do not negate my gratitude for the people who have help build my ladder.
Feeling alone and sad and angry about the sequences of events that happened in my life does not take away for the overwhelming love Iāve felt from the humans around me.
And thatās a really hard thing for me to grasp- the holding of such aggressively juxtaposed feelings in my hands.
And I think thatās the bottom line of giving God the cold shoulder.
When I admit all the things that feel dark and twisty and hopeless, when I speak those into the room they are there.
But so is the hope, and the love and the gratitude.
Iām allowed to have both.
Iāve said this before, in betwixt words that feel more heavy than I like, that I donāt like writing words without a conclusion.
Like, Iām still feeling all of it. If not more so right now because Iām choosing to let myself.
I honestly donāt know if Iām going to stop giving God the cold shoulder.
I donāt have any answers.
But, I do have my hands full with all the ugliness of healing.
If youāve made it through these storm clouds of words, I hope you note them, hold them, bookmark them for a moment you might need to hold your hands full of emotions that donāt match.
I hope you remember that healing can be ugly.
And I truly hope you know, even amidst things Iāve written that donāt feel as so, that you can keep fucking going.
Thatās all.
With love,
Meg
PS. Mom, Iām ok.
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I hate clowns
Iāve been living in a lot of fear lately.
I was going to beat around the bush or disclaim away, but itās truly the bottom line.
I realized it today while I was texting Joanna. I had planned to try an extra day at work this week and as I laid in bed I realized I was just almost paralyzed with the what ifs of it all.
What if I go too hard and something happens.
What if I miss something.
What if it all shuts down again.
What if.
A few weeks ago I noticed my clothes were incredibly loose. I had finally had all the swelling in my body go down. My feet looked sickly because I wasnāt used to them not being swollen.
And my brain automatically said what if youāre losing weight rapidly and you donāt notice this time.
So I did something the 90s diet teen in my body railed against.
I bought a bathroom scale.
I was right by the way- in about 8 weeks Iād dropped 40 pounds. Iāve been the same since then but the fear in my brain just keeps asking- what if you keep dropping. What if somethingās wrong.
I am just beginning to really grasp how scared I actually was during the end of September through October last year. In the moment I had no space to actually delve into the fear and the what ifs. There was no room to really grasp all the things that might go wrong because I just needed to focus on each moment. If I would have allowed myself to drop into those black holes while laying in that hospital bed, I might have not been able to pull myself out.
I had to keep fucking going.
But, there were moments, small pockets of time before I knew what was going on in my body, while I was being wheeled place to place or walking through the hospital halls with an oxygen tank and a walker where my mind would flash with the wondering if if this was all I would have.
My body had shut down on me in terribly scary ways. I hadnāt been able to breathe or walk or eat. I would forget what I was saying in the midst of saying it. My body hurt, I had to get blood transfusions, my arms were covered in bruises. I woke up everyday not knowing what they were going to try next, what test I might have, what doctor might come in and tell me another thing that would completely tilt my access.
I didnāt, and still might not, have the words to express all the things I felt then. I still might not have the words to express all the things I feel now.
I do have the words to express how proud I am of myself during that time. Because even though I was scared and sad and angry and so many others emotions in between I can look back at those weeks in the hospital and know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that I was a good human. I was kind to the nurses and doctors, I didnāt lash out, I didnāt take my emotions out on those around me.
But I do know Iām still scared. I still have that fear hovering. That thing telling me to be careful. That the floor could drop out from under me.
That I might never get pieces of myself back.
I know logically, that Iāve come so far. I know that my body is bodying a little better now.
I know Iām moving forward.
But Iām terrified.
And the question that popped into my brain after that was simply this:
What if Iām never enough again?
I know from years of Christian womenās ministry and teaching kids at camp, that the party line is I am enough. (My party line that is: I donāt subscribe the bullshit that we arenāt enough- thatās not the Jesus I love).
But damn, the fear of never being able to come back to myself is aggressive and ugly.
Because in those moments when the fear peaks itās head through the door and whispers what if this is all there is.
I would love to tell you I started writing this because I already knew how to conquer the fear. I guess in a way I kind of do.
I can tell you I wrote this because Iām not the only one that deals with fear fall out after something traumatic. It could be a divorce or a death or an accident. It could be dealing with burn out or diagnosis.
When the other shoe drops and your world caves in fear loves to find a way in to tell you that this is how itās always going to be.
I hate haunted houses. I donāt go to them, I donāt come near them, Iām not about that life. But in college I would go to Knottās Scary farm with friends and weād go through the mazes and I hated every moment, but once I started walking through the only real way out was to keep going. To duck your head and not make eye contact with the clowns and just keep fucking going.
Because eventually youāll be out. Eventually the clowns will have to torment someone else.
Eventually youāll be able to look up again.
But, you canāt do that if you decide to sit on the floor and let the clowns surround you.
You have to keep fucking going.
Iām not going to always get this right.
Iām not going to always shake the feeling that the shoe might drop.
My body might not want to body.
Iām probably going to sob in the shower because I have to deal with the ramifications of all that once was again.
But I owe it to myself to keep going.
I owe it to the Meg who laid in a hospital bed and the Meg who couldnāt get out of bed.
I owe it to that Meg because she got through her own mazes.
I owe it to that Meg because I actually get to be this Meg.
And I owe it that Meg because simply:
We both really fucking hate clowns.
Hereās to you getting through your mazes.
With love,
Meg
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Hope: it feels like a battering ram.
I feel like my modus operandi these days has mostly just been avoiding writing words I should be writing. Itās not my fault I have a guttural reaction to putting words on a paper because 9 times out of ten I figure something out I donāt necessarily want to know.
But, even though Iāve been tired, something my OT told me was to save energy for things that I want to do.
And something I wanted to do today was walk somewhere and write. Even though I donāt really want to , I want to. So here we are.
In church on Sunday my pastor was talking about one of my least favorite Christian buzzwords: hope. Itās a word that is absolutely misused, misrepresented and honestly misunderstood.
I hate to break it to you; hope isnāt always a beautiful bouquet of flowers. Itās not some floaty, pretty cloud formation or something that always makes you feel better.
Hope can be found in the gritty, in the cracks and crevices.
For me, hope almost always goes hand and hand with peace. Because if I donāt feel peace about something, Iām absolutely not going to feel hope. Something a mentor taught me years and years ago was to follow my peace. Not, follow the thing that felt the easiest, but to follow that spot in my gut that realized what was supposed to happen.
And in that, without realizing, I began to follow the things that felt hopeful, even when they didnāt feel easy, or when they felt like a leap instead of a step.
In church on Sunday I had this image. It started out simply as waves, but then it became a moment from Moana Jr. tech week. There was a part in the show where āthe wavesā were the ones who moved the big boat Moana rode on. And at one point while I was up in the booth watching the girls get a bit off path and got way too close to the edge stage for my liking. They got very close to something very scary happening and right at the last minute went a different way.
Sometimes hope is like that. Itās going to feel scary until it isnāt anymore. Itās going to feel scary until we get to the point that the path hope is taking us on is more than the fear of moving forward.
And sometimes you have to even find the hope amidst the scary thing happening.
Even if we have to go back over the narrative and find the hope amidst the moments that were full of fear.
I think there are a lot of ways we can move towards hope. Itās not about being toxically positivity, or believing that nothing bad can happen. Itās not about wearing rose colored glasses and believing that nothing can touch you.
Itās about hoping in spite of.
Hoping even if.
Itās about not letting the circumstances you canāt control define how you wield hope.
I had to come to terms pretty quickly during my hospitalizations and getting diagnosed with the fact that I couldnāt have stopped it. At the end of the day there was a little autoimmune bomb in my body waiting to detonate and I was just so lucky that I just had a full system shut down.
(Two autoimmune diseases for the price of one).
I donāt think I felt hopeful.
But, what I realize is that I was more hopeful than I can could comprehend. I chose to take the pressure of guilt off of myself and because of that I think I made room for the ability to keep moving forward. I chose to believe the doctors, I chose to listen.
I chose to live.
Now, Iām not saying it still isnāt scary. Iām not saying I am just filled with hope for my tomorrows daily.
I just am saying Iām not where I was 3 months ago.
For me, hope is moving forward. Itās choosing sometimes to jump off a cliff. It choosing to lay down things that you donāt need to carry so you can hold more of something else.
Itās choosing not follow it to the edge of an outlook only to find a safe way down to the water.
Sometimes (okay maybe most of the time) we just have to chose to be moved by hope. We have to ride the wave or the rollercoaster or follow a path.
We have to move regardless.
I donāt know about you but Iād rather wield hope by raising my voice, by living, by letting go of the things I donāt need to hold onto.
Iād rather wield hope by moving forward rather than sitting still.
Hope isnāt always pretty,
It isnāt the pathway most traveled.
Hope isnāt an easy choice.
But, itās a powerful one.
Letās wield hope.
With love,
Meg
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