I know I'm guilty of complaining a lot on this blog about the struggles I face as a volunteer, and the bad days that accompany my work.. but Monday of last week took the cake. It was a can't-hold-myself-together, crying-in-front-of-students, sobbing-on-skype-to-mum kind of day.
Sinead and the Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day.
Fast forward to Wednesday, and wine and cheese with the friars at Kloof, and scenes of the Chilean miners' rescue being played out on the TV. I was absolutely glued to the screen as Number 16 and Number 17 stumbled to the surface, into the arms of the people they thought they'd never see again. The last time the news was so saturated with one story was on September 11th we murmured to each other. I couldn't believe my eyes, nor my ears the next morning on our drive to work, as the deejay congratulated Chile on the rescue of all thirty-three men. I think I've become skeptical... pessimistic even. I didn't think they could do it.
It was nice to see some good news for a change. Stories like the successful rescue give me a renewed sense of hope, which, more often of late, I need more than I need air to breathe.