Please forgive this post and the ones to follow. Their existence are simply the footprints left by my clumsy steps of faith. My Shepherd is standing ahead, and He’s just calling ever so patiently for me to come, and be what He made me to be. I don’t claim to be good. I just claim to be His.
For all, seasons are the measure of years, of stages, of lives. For some, those seasons play out in the weather: the killing chill of Winter winds to the green of things, the gracious break of Spring-warmed earth with buds, the heavy, mellowing heat of Summer, the cooling and crisping of Autumn, as all that has grown decides to change again, and sleep. How curious that Autumn, as it turns toward a certain death, grows more gold and vibrant than Spring’s burst of life, that in this laying down of life, others gain life, and live on, continuing the cycle.
Seasons for me were limited to two in my girlhood–hot and cold–like a coin.
On one side were the “normal,” relatively dry and cloudless days of Silicon Valley. In those days, the air was only somewhat smoggy. The sun shined and the moon shined. The stars did their best to eek through the light pollution from the Earthly lamps of this city of cement that I loved.
On the other, The Winter: a time for coats, for stretchy gloves, but mostly for umbrellas. The rain would make lakes of playgrounds, whether they were grass and dirt, blacktop or tanbark. Winter was nothing to be feared, no killer or thief, just a cold, gray stranger that loomed over life’s proceedings ’til he slipped out the back door.
Life seemed to flip and flop this way too. Some days soared, some days slumped, but neither so high or so low as to be of much significance. Some may call this comfortable, but I always felt it mediocre.
Then I felt it– and it was a shock to my lungs. My first real winter.
[to be continued]