To Hope While Inhabiting Ruins

by Camera Bensinger

Each new sunrise, we wake 

To the weight of our weary bones, 

To the terror of a plague uncaptured, 

To humans, rock, ocean, sky, 

All uttering muffled cries for justice withheld, Wholeness delayed. 

Cruel mysteries surround us 

About a plundered earth 

Where people are pillaged, 

Possessions cherished, 

And cravings for power, insatiable. 

With certain skin shades despised 

While another is idolized. 

Where there are wars and walls, 

Image bearers banished to cages. 

The young are ripped 

From their brown mothers. 

While others lay lifeless, 

After breath was snatched 

From their black bodies. 

Like the ancient prophets, 

Our soul inquiries to God. 

Why do you allow wickedness to endure? How long will terror have it’s reign? 

Why must we exist alongside such despair? 

What good could rise from a wasteland?

To hope while inhabiting such ruins 

Compounds the sting of foolishness 

With our innate grit to survive. 

Hope is of resilient substances, 

Beckoning you away from despair in broad daylight,

Snatching you from sleep in the night, 

Inviting your pulse to chase a dimension

Where the world is as it should be. 

Hope can dig into the depth of memory,

Mining a reservoir of moments when God Has been good.

When miracles, 

Tiny and giant were crafted just for you.

Sometimes hope feels of elusive longings,

Beautiful and too beyond us to touch and taste.

Even so, such a dream can be enough help to

Nourish the soul for a day. 

Hope can be disguised 

In those miniscule bits of pleasure. 

While shadows hover over humanity, 

You can still feel the sun’s rays wrap around your skin.

An unforseen breeze can still refresh you. 

Hope is the treasure of scripture, 

It’s in those stories of wicked kingdoms 

And their systems, stealing much from the margins. It’s in the Creator’s tender 

Recognition of the wounded 

And a blaring denouncing of evil. 

Sometimes hope’s language is lyrical. 

It’s suffering embodied in sound. 

Like a negro spiriutal, 

Strong enough to sit beside you in lament And soothing enough to resuscitate you 

For pressing on. 

Sometimes hope multiplies in connection.

You can feel its power 

When a spectrum of hues interlace hands In protest.

You can catch it in the safe silence

Shared in solidarity.

You can hear it 

In the laughter of little humans playing. 

Hope swells in the presence of God. 

It deems us worthy of the same invitations

Given to the prophets.

It Invites us 

To release another prayer to the heavens,

Flip another table set for corruption, 

Fight another foe for our neighbor, 

Wait another day 

For all that’s unfinished 

To find it’s completion.

— by Camara Gaither

Bio

Camara has ten years of leadership experience with a non-profit ministry. She is currently transitioning into social work to become a counselor and facilitator. She wants to influence people and structures to better centralize justice, restoration, and diversity. As a multiracial woman, she navigates the beauty and pain of embodying ancestral narratives and modern realities of being Black, White, and Jewish. With a compassionate and creative heart, she loves to sit with people in their stories. She creates space for others to heal, walk in the truth of their identity, and discover their unique place in the fight to restore this world. Camara is a passionate follower of Jesus, wife, and mother living in Orlando, Florida.