Seasons: Why You Might Be Overcommitted, Stressed Out and Irritable

There’s Beauty in Every Season

Somewhere, some-when, in the last several months, I’ve lost my “edge”. Suddenly, the blank page intimidates me again. I have nothing to say. Nothing seems original or worthy of the time and effort to put fingers on keys, nor does anything seem worthy of being read–it’s all been said before, right?

In fact, when I look back at the thousands of posts I’ve written–I’ve probably said it all before.

God’s Word is emphatically clear when it tells us that our tongues can get carried away. They can set an entire forest on fire! So, at what point does a writer say, “Enough?”

I’m wondering if that’s where God has me … I know many authors and writers take full lifetimes to express all God has laid on their hearts. But, I’ve turned a corner in my own vocation, finding greater joy and ease in reading others’ work than crafting my own. So that’s where I’ve been–reading, refining and relishing the work of other writers who call on the One True God. What a joy it is!

We’ve talked about seasons here before. I truly believe one of the hardest things in life is letting go of a lovely season. Think of autumn, always seemingly the shortest season of all. A few crisp days and then suddenly, they bleed into frigid temps and good reasons to stay cozy indoors. Or, summer clings to its very limits, refusing to release those long, hot days to the reprieve of fall.

In life, think of the things God’s given you to do that you absolutely loved! You found your niche–others could tell, too. For a time, you were successful, happy, predictable, comfortable and then … something interrupted your flow. Suddenly, you found yourself starting over, asking God, “What do you want me to do?” At the very least, you found yourself doing something you never expected.

I think that’s why I love the book of Ecclesiastes. Solomon says over and over, “There is a season for … “. The interesting thing about seasons though, is one can’t begin until the other ends.

Maybe that’s how we find ourselves overcommitted, stressed out and irritable–we’ve launched into a new season with out telling the last one “goodbye”. 

What season do you find yourself in? Is one fading and another dawning? Are you afraid to say goodbye?

Even as He quiets my mind, heart and fingers, God still speaks. So, for the next season, I hope to share the little things He’s teaching me–the daily wonders, the calls to thankfulness, the stern rebukes, the steadfast love. These posts may be shorter, concise or questioning and even less than profound. But I hope you’ll enjoy this next season with me. After all, there’s beauty in every season.

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Hello Friends! I’m inviting you to join me over at Haven Journal today. Here’s a taste, follow the link to get more!

My dad was a full five bike lengths in front of me, despite the fact that his bike might as well have been made of lead compared to mine, crafted from a lighter alloy. He turned back to search for me in the slowly spreading sea of cyclists. Concern filled his eyes, but he knew better than to admonish me.

We had registered for this 60 mile bike ride in Tulsa, Oklahoma, in May, right after I returned from my first stint at Remuda Ranch, a treatment center for eating disorders. By now, a rainy, chilly, September day, I had shed most of the weight my therapists and dietitians had gently encouraged me to gain.

Malnourished and tired, I hadn’t felt well for three days, but I refused to tell my parents. If they knew I was getting sick there was no way they’d let me ride, and I would rather die than miss a chance to burn 60 miles worth of calories.

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Between Heaven and Stone

Abba, there’s a rush of Heaven-water out my window.

Sounds of earth and stones gulping, swallowing and gasping,

For more of Heaven’s gift.

Cool and pelting, still soft and warm

Against skin and mud and leaves.

Leaves,

Autumn burnt and crispy till,

Heaven wishes them soggy and limp.

The boldest ones still hang on branches

drip, drip, drip.

Almost xylophone, the pavement pings

a different tone

Than petal, blade or stone.

Night refuses to rest her head,

Keeps one lid drooping over dawn.

White Rose

A winter white rose

Lingers brazen.

As if she dares the pending snow

to steal her royal garb.

Ringed with velvet petals

Her heart is crazy bold.

As if she holds off passing time

She chafes against the cold.

Frailer blooms have bowed their heads.

Surrendered bloom

To dark and murderous winter’s doom.

The season’s taken many things

It’s chill-expected toll.

Her fragrance wanes.

Her spine now curves in weakened pain.

With dignity she wakes each morn

Single tear-petals drip past thorns

On their journey to the ground.

One winter white rose

lingers proud.

Know’s not her season to expire.

Wakes each morn with lovely valor.

Dying Things

Fallen

Foliage fingerprints.

Prism mums,

Oft sunlight glints.

And dying things.

 

Flow’rs huddle low,

‘Neathe  coming cold.

Day dies young

With setting sun.

And dying things.

 

Bug’s knees creak,

Old, aging, weak.

Bedtime’s early,

Heads soft and curly.

Just sleepy things…

Abundance

I am wrapped in abundance,

Like corduroy cloaks

Of seasonal sensations.

 

Brown, gold, red, orange,

Cascade from blue

And autumn wrenched branches.

 

A maelstrom of glory

YOUR GLORY

Swirls around me.

Comfort in consistency.

 

Powerful, predictable

To know this pulse of peace.

Next season will arrive at

Your stroke of the clock.

And winter will hustle

The year away.

 

My little world

Swirls around me

In cacophony of curiosity.

I only know

I trust only

The predictable peace

That you afford.

 

Whether blinded sun hides today,

Glory yet, for it blooms this morn.

Whether blinded by uncertainty,

Joy yet, this morn.

Glory. Peace.