Both hands full
Hope’s a liar if it won’t look the truth in the eye. And truth’s a killer if it forgets what hope can do.
The best hands I’ve known carry both.
One for the facts — the dead calf, the busted pump, the dust that won’t quit. One for the faith — the rain that’s coming, the grass that’ll rise, the herd that’ll fatten again.
Too much of either, and you’re lost. Blind if you only dream. Bitter if you only count.
The hard part ain’t surviving the season. It’s doing it without losing your balance.
That’s where the real grit lives.
