Hope restored: a grandmother’s thoughts — Ana Gobledale, UK

Written after visiting my first grandchild.

Baby smells waft into my nostrils.
A pattering heart pulsates in my embrace.
Tearlets moisten my eyes.
Powerful hope swirls through my core.

This is my body.
This is my blood.
God’s own child rests in my arms.

By what name shall this child be called?
Hope. Promise. Future. Love. Heaven-on-earth. Divine-presence.

My familiar fatalism pauses.
Visions of humanity’s demise fade.
Memories of gasmasks in our basement in the 1960’s move aside.
Images of imminent global meltdown and viral extinction recede.

Hope infiltrates
Like smoke seeping in beneath the door
Encircling, wrapping, embracing.

Does wonder mean naiveté?
Does hope create a cloak of denial?

As I read the morning news, the sorrow of humanity seems to sweep away my new born hope.
No, I stand corrected.
Hope and despair, joy and sorrow, intermingle,
Multiple strands in the plaited reality of my faith.

I shall be with you, always in this helix of life.
This shall be a sign… a baby, life, hope.
God’s own child, Emmanuel.