Darkness. Complete and total darkness. Brokenness. Painful, heart-rending brokenness. She stares at the world before her, seeing empty nothingness. She hugs her feet to her shoulders, shielding herself from the dagger-like assault of the cutting, shard-like air.
“Is there hope?” She asks. “Is there hope for this fallen world?”
“There is.” She hears a Still Small Voice. “There’s hope for this fallen world.”
The Voice – almost inaudible – startles her and she stands – terrified, tentative, yet feeling a tiny ember of hope light up in her heart.
“There is?” As she speaks, a paintbrush manifests in her left hand, a feather pen in her right.
“Paint the invisible into this dark and empty canvas. Write words of hope into this hopeless, despairing world.”
Slowly, she lifts her instruments up. The brush leaves a trail of bright, luminescent colors as she weaves it carefully about. The feather pen cautiously forms words like “joy”, “gladness”, “perseverance”, and “faith”. As she discovers her power to create she begins to use her instruments more confidently. The colors from her paintbrush become more vibrant; the words from her pen become more daring and life altering.
She gapes at the world before here, looks at it in awe, and is amazed by the world of color, the world of striking vividness. She spreads her arms open, savors the freedom brought by this new world of wholeness, and hears that Still Small Voice speak once again.
“See. There is hope.”