The Season We Were Made For

 {By Tammy Hendricksmeyer}

 

March was a laboring month, one full of Braxton hicks.

 

Here in Texas, there were periods of blue skies and wispy clouds that visited our naked woodlands. The kids grabbed summer shorts and ran no less, a dozen circles around the house. Above us, white con-trails from jets pointed in all directions. Spring is like a child with all ten fingers and toes pointing to God’s creation.

 

The sun and it’s vitamin D has a way of infusing courage and strength to tired, weary bones. There’s a physical sense of living in the moment. We pull out our running shoes and take hikes. We live in the wonder and momentarily forget about the laundry pile still sitting on top the dryer. We forget the farm’s mangled scrap metal, a heap it’s own, needing to be cleaned up. Indoor plans are ditched all together because hello, sixty degrees. It’s strange how my soul feels warmed up too, like a physical body needing to be fed.

 

On this day, the sky was a faucet running wide open, drenching everything in it’s path. I become its thirsty sponge.

 

But then the next day came with its rain and plunging temperatures. A gray-ness wrapped me inside a cerebral cocoon. My thoughts turned inward. And my living room began to seem too plain, too blank, and too empty.  I considered artwork, stencils, colors, ornaments, anything to fill it with beauty, but sleep pressed heavily in on me and I blamed the weather. I blamed the temperatures. I blamed the blank wall. I blamed myself. There is a sense of hibernation in the waiting, the long time in coming, along with a sense of responsibility. I imagine the disciples when they hid from a world cocooned in pain and loss after Jesus died.

 

It’s the in-between’s, the neither-here-nor-there, the leaving but not-yet-entering, the going but never arriving, that lack a cadence of landing at a hopeful end. Waiting is like oil–when we think we’ve arrived, the end slips further away.

 

However. It only takes one moment. One split-second that changes the trajectory of our day, our life, our souls. Like a ghost dressed in white, a light can burst through and we have to squint. The women at the tomb knew of such a light.

 

pink cross over our house

 

Hope is not shy. It comes careening in side-a-ways, coming slant but bright.  And you feel Presence. Deeply abiding, Presence.

 

There is power for living under this one atmospheric dome, only one faith away from us embracing it. That faith is yours and mine.

 

And we could lose ourselves, on the hard days. We could and do. We could close the blinds, put a pillow over our head, and nap an afternoon away. Some days, we will do just that. We could scatter and separate and wonder what God was doing all this time in the darkness of our waiting.

 

I imagine the disciples’ pregnant pause after Jesus died, a stillbirth of their own grandiose ideas of an earthy kingdom. Is it no wonder that Easter is held in Spring, the season that struggles between new life and dormancy? The season which arrives one day only to be horribly taken back, the next?

 

But it turns. Be what it may. We begin turning, even if it feels more like dragging because our hope is not dependent on a blue-sky life. Our hope is built on nothing less.

 

Despite the seasons we may be living, God’s people are connected by a thread. And some days, the thread feels mighty thinner than others. But this is still the world He created and holds in place by His word. His truth never falters despite our believing or disbelieving. And this thread, only feels as such. Essentially, it’s the whole Resurrection living inside us. It’s our perpetual Spring to world-weary souls.

 

Our earthly pangs are cyclic. They testify of Christ’s continual work in birthing more of Himself and expanding His territory within. We were made for an eternal season of living with God and Spring serves to remind us.

 

_________________________________________________

 

My PhotoTammy has discovered writing is the rawest, scariest, frustratingly glorious, rewarding, and essential way to process life. She’s a renaissance woman who’s scattered pigeons at Notre Dame, swam the coral reefs of Okinawa, scaled fortresses in Nuremburg, viewed the Eiffel Tower safely from the ground, and occasionally drives an old John Deere tractor in tim-buck-two. She’s a fighter for others to see their redemptive purpose, beauty, worth, and connection to a supernatural God. She’s the Founder and Curator for Outside The City Gates where she’s also a Co-Conspirator with a team of other writers. Her faith journey is found on her personal blog, or connect with her on  Facebook and Twitter.

 

 

 

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2 Comments on “The Season We Were Made For

  1. Your words bring so much encouragement to me, Tammy. It helps to remember that there is purpose even in the waiting. Nothing is in vain. I so relate to the days that I just want to lay in bed, and others that fill me with joy and hope. Life is a mix, and on the hard days, it’s good to remember, they’re only for a season. So much love to you, friend.

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