Everywhere I look, it’s announced. Spring.
By the bloggers and bluebonnets and breezy wind blowing its cheerful whisper all around: It’s Spring. And time for all things to be new.
Usually, I birth and rebirth with the change of seasons, my own winter deadening hibernation, my summer sunny scorching, and my cozy autumnal leafy drifting.
But the clock has not set to Spring on this heart yet. My personal groundhog remains buried underground, inside the deadness, where there is still winter. I am not new and fresh and all re-born, yet. Not this year.
Just tired. So. So. Tired.
Tired because, yes, the baby couldn’t sleep and called out for me all night and we did the tucking-in routine dozens and dozens of times and my top and bottom eyelids haven’t met in oh, forty something hours. Tired because one of our resident boys went home for spring break and didn’t return, left by his own will with no goodbye, and although I am an adult and should know better, I am hurt and slighted. Tired because as the revolving doors can sometimes go in places like these, as one leaves another one prepares to move in, and we will start again with another boy in three days and I can't imagine where I'll get the strength, but I also know just where. Here, in Him who gives me strength.
And the laundry. And the mess. And the unpacking from the not-restful vacation. And it can start to look like mountains and monsters waiting for me around every corner, in this gopher hole where winter stays and the soul hangs damp and heavy.
I breathe in deep and pray for my internal Spring to arrive.
For the Rain to wash me clean, to bloom with brightness and shake off this stale winter breath. For the Breeze to blow all this away, and the sun… the Son… to bring on the wildflowers, again.
“For You will light my lamp; The Lord my God will enlighten my darkness.” – Psalm 18:28