The rain has come now, for three days. Our ditches along the driveway, stretch a third of a mile long and have been working overtime to keep puddles slowly draining away from our graveled path. There's a bit of cabin fever happening and today holds much the same. I've grabbed the black and white blanket with a picture of a horse on it, one too many times, in reprieve from the cold and wet.
These are the days I hermit away. I become a bear of hibernation, craving sleep in a dark cave for a bedroom. All of this becomes a bit dangerous for my soul to recluse with such tiresome isolation, like the fiddle-back spiders we sometimes find on the farm, here.
But there is green, lots of shades of green as if each rain drop holds pure oxygen of emerald dyes. Our ducks have happily splashed in the mini pools forming hodge-podge in our backyard. They've flocked from one end of the greenery to the other without so much as a care for the cold. Our two farm dogs, which lazily take turns sleeping with their backs against our patio door, have been friskier of late, except when lightening was striking so close and loud as too feel like bombs being dropped around us. Then they huddled like scared rabbits and shaking leaves about to take flight in a blustery Fall wind.
Ordinary is as long as the days are in coming, each one after the other. Sometimes, I'm trying to muster up the energy of my 10 year old self, imagining I could harness something of those by gone days. But it's in the ordinary pattern of waxing and waning, between taking on the world to crawling under the nearest fuzzy blanket, for which I reluctantly accept. Because we must give permission to our selves to rest, to fill up, to pour out, and to somehow balance our lives.
But just as the rain rushes with such energy, it's taken away by pipes and drains, to be carried off like my own stamina seems to do on these kinds of days. I wonder if life was always this way or if I'm just now alive enough to notice the lulls.
God gives the seasons, the rains, the blizzards, and the hibernations. Because you must find ways to go inside and be with those you have in your life, today. To find time to curl up on a soft, brown couch to read and be available to watch homemade videos with Lego characters or hear yet another creation of imagination.
These are the simple ordinaries, the times you're reminded of restful reflections in all the slumbering anticipations of change. There'll be time for outside walks and glorious blue skies making your heart burst with gladness. There'll be park days with scooters and kids bounding over obstacles and friends talking together between scolding the children to include someone in their play.
But today, there is only a simple-ness unraveling, a time to grieve, or mourn, to rest, and open your eyes to look around, like a turtle poking his head from the shell. So you blink the sleep from your eyes, because surely God is in the place and your soul is too weary to know it. And there's more to life than that king bed beckoning you to sleep your life away and you want to live it.
This is why you weakly call on the Spirit to do miracles, to breathe a holy breathe of life because this flesh is tiresome and weak. And so you grope in the dark because He never leaves us nor forsakes even when are minds are wearied by carrying these bones He gave us. Nothing is too difficult and so you hand that ordinary weariness of the day, to rest it firmly in His hands for whatever may. And then you watch the skies because surely the sun is coming soon, just as the morning rises after the dark.
"When God lives and breathes in you (and he does, as surely as he did in Jesus), you are delivered from that dead life. With his Spirit living in you, your body will be as alive as Christ’s!" Romans 8:10 The Message Bible