Hopelessly Hopeful

I'd like to believe that I'm an eternal optimist. That when a door closes, a window opens. That when life throws you lemons, you can make lemonades. That there's a rainbow after the rain. 

The way I see it, life is a series of miracles. Each day is a present waiting to be unwrapped with the excitement of a five year old on Christmas morning. From the time the sun rises to the time it sets, and back again, countless blessings are thrown in our way, and the only energy-utilizing activity we have to perform is opening our eyes to these blessings. 

Working in a place where lives are lost practically everyday, where seeing people with missing extremities is not a cause of alarm, and where diseases are a constant presence, it can be a challenge to look at the world through rainbow-colored glasses. But that doesn't mean that it's impossible. 

Everyday, new pairs of eyes see the world for the first time. Everyday, the then-weak leave the hospital healthier, happier. Everyday, hopeful hearts await for a better tomorrow. Yes, a hospital is a place of illness and death, but it is also a place of life, of recovery, and above all else, of hope.

And there can never be too much hope. We can never be too hopeful, because as long as we have it, we can have anything. After all, we don't wake up every single day just because our circadian rhythm dictates us to. We wake up because we look forward to another day, to gaining new experiences, to reuniting with the special people in our lives. We wake up because we hope--because He gave us something to hope for.

"For in this hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience."

                                                                                                              - Romans 8:24-25