I don’t think any of us feels whole. Not really whole.
How can we when the world around us is so broken?
Where do we string together the words to describe what we see or capture what we feel in a way that can be heard in the wind?
And where does our hope come from?
Yet, we do catch a glimpse of grace, a sliver of promise in the stillness. When we’re quiet enough to hear the pause between the waves and breathe the morning air as it rises in the sunlight.
There, when we are at the end of ourselves, we find what has been waiting for us all along.
Not ours to make or take, but to receive with the tenderness with which it is given.