Faith.

The anxiety that fills the waiting room, no one looks at one another because any eye contact could mean threatening tears. Hands rub against each other, some just stay intertwined as if intense prayers could be magnified with the tight hands. When the doctor comes in wearing his battered green scrubs, we are forced to fear. When he dons his formal shirt, we look to his weary expressions instead for answers. In our hearts, the prayers and pleas repeats. Echoes of hope that we could almost hear from one another. Then he speaks. 

And some times each word that leaves his lips is like a whip at our hope, breaking our hearts to pieces.

But on good days, we get words that becomes the cement to build that hope back up. 

Today is a good day. 

I pray that tomorrow will be a day we build again.