One on the sidewalk as I’m walking my dog. One at the grocery store, right next to my car, driver’s side. One standing upright in the grass at the park near my house. Even one in the garage (not a high, bird-traffic area), near the washing machine. Lately it seems I’ve been finding feathers everywhere – nearly a dozen now, but I won’t bore you with all the locations. And not old, matted, musty feathers. Perfect ones – blue, brown, white and grey – that look as if their previous owners might have left them as a calling card.

Some people find pennies. I’m finding feathers.

Here’s the other coincidence (or not.) On the oversized blackboard that nearly covers one wall in my dining room, weeks ago I scrawled this snippet of an Emily Dickinson poem, and drew a few chalky feathers around it: Hope is the thing with feathers – that perches on the soul – that sings the tune without the words – and never stops – at all!

Now that I’m finding feathers, I’m thinking a lot more of hope. I’m thinking of it more, and trying not to squelch it when I feel it rising in my heart. I’m forcing myself to watch my hometown baseball team roll into September, six games back in the wild card race and too far behind the Cardinals to care. Sometimes watching breaks my heart, but I’m not going to stop. Wilder things have happened. I can hope.

I’m hoping, one day soon, for a morning so cool that summer will retreat for the last time this year, and leave the trees in my front yard no choice but to begin dropping their leafy confetti on fall’s quiet parade.

I’m hoping for older, deeper hopes, too. Secret ones that just get richer with the years, and never seem to fade. I’m finding feathers, and so I think – why not?

It’s not the feathers themselves. They’re only a reminder. A handful of feathers don’t hold much weight, literally or figuratively. But my hope is anchored elsewhere – to something strong and unshakeable. A friend of mine once said, “Choose hope. It’s absolutely reasonable.” She’s not a cockeyed optimist, and neither am I. She’s a follower of the One who gave hope its feathers, and makes it sing. We know the Risen One. And because we know Him, our hope is reasonable.

Not everyone’s finding feathers. (I know. I asked a couple of friends, just to be sure.) Or maybe not everyone’s noticing them. But I am. And I’m hopeful. Because the Eternal, Living Object of my hope is dauntless, relentless and wise. Because He pulled off the ultimate turnaround when He breathed life back into His dead Son, and into me.

Hope is His calling card. And I’m finding it everywhere.

Now may the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, that you may abound in hope by the power of the Holy Spirit. (Romans 15:13, NASB)

© Leigh McLeroy 2004