Wings of Hope

There are moments when I feel like I am standing on a windswept beach, just like the one in Normandy, looking up at those great, rising forms of metal reaching toward the sky—"Les Braves." Among them, the Wings of Hope speak to something in me I can’t quite name. They remind me of the courage it takes to keep rising every day, even when everything feels too heavy to carry. They arc skyward, defiant and beautiful, forged not just in steel, but in memory and sacrifice. And somehow, as I look at them—even in pictures—I feel less alone. Because hope, like those wings, is not a soft, fragile thing. It’s a force, a lift, a breath that moves you forward when the world wants you still.

Hope doesn’t whisper to me. It roars. But not always in a way others can hear. Sometimes, it's the whisper of my own breath in the quiet morning before another long day begins. It’s the feel of my husband’s hand in mine when the seizures pass and he comes back to me. It's the steady rhythm of my feet on the floor when I get up, again and again, no matter how tired or broken I feel. Hope lives in these moments—the ones no one applauds, no one sees. But I feel them in my bones.

The Wings of Hope remind me that hope isn’t passive. It’s not just wishing. It’s an act of resistance. It’s choosing to believe in light even while standing in shadow. It’s loving fiercely in the face of loss, speaking gently in the face of pain, staying present when everything in you wants to run. These wings don’t just rise—they fight. They stretch through the air with boldness, cutting into the sky with grace and defiance. I want to be like that. I want to rise like that. Some days I do. Some days I can’t. But hope waits for me, patient and steady, like the tide.

When I look at those wings, I imagine all the stories they represent—not just of soldiers and battles, but of families, caregivers, survivors. People like me. People who know what it is to endure, to stand in the wake of chaos and still choose to build a life. I think of all the silent strength in this world, all the quiet fighters who will never have a monument built in their name, and I know: we are not alone. We are part of something sacred. Something brave.

And maybe that's what the Wings of Hope are really about. Not just honoring the past, but reminding the living to keep going. To keep believing. To keep lifting ourselves, and each other, higher.

So I stand in my own storm, heart bowed but unbroken, and I imagine wings at my back—not made of steel, but of love, faith, and the quiet kind of hope that refuses to let go.