I don’t think we realize how much we need hope until it is offered to us, wide and spacious as an open field at dawn.
It is then that we realize how desperate we were for it. And slowly we understand that somewhere it was taken from us and our hearts got hard. Because they had to. But softly, and nearly imperceptible, they are coming back to life.
I watched two grown black men cry last night. And it was beautiful. Last night, the world was part of something historic and whether you are white, black, Republican or Democrat, it doesn’t really matter.
Last night, we proved to the world that the barriers of our skin are dissolving.
It was a promise. A promise for a continent that I love that change is possible. People were holding each other over the noise of people shouting and shushing and for a moment I sensed the unity that the crowds must have felt listening to Dr. Martin Luther King or Nelson Mandela. There was love in that room. Love and a promise.
And somewhere inside of us we are finding the strength to believe in it again.
To believe that Africa is not less-than and that for a moment, and maybe in time, we can be one.
To believe that girls who are raped and girls who have killed can start over.
To believe that God will not leave us in our mess for long and that love really can change the world. To believe again.
