THE HOPEFUL STORY

Once upon a time there was a hopeful story. It was only a little story, a tale from past experience. But its theme was so compelling, its content so alluring, its timing so profoundly, precisely perfect that the little hopeful story became very powerful. How powerful was it? It was so powerful that when it fell upon ears fitted with filters that were open only to hopeless stories, it slipped through. It was so powerful that when it reached the dense layer of hopelessness that filled the space just inside the eardrums, it slipped right through. It was so powerful that when it shouted, “Hey, is there a hoping self in there?” the tiny little hoping self, the eeny-weeny battered, baffled, curled-up hoping self that everybody thought was dead, opened its eyes and yawned. It blinked a few times, flexed its cramped muscles, and struggled to its feet. Then it followed the hopeful story out through the thick layers of hopelessness, on through the ears that had been previously closed to hopeful stories, and into the world. The eeny-weeny hoping self licked its lips and said, “Maybe this time things will turn out better than I expect.” And the ears could hear it.