intervals

As of late, there have been many reminders of what I will call intervals- the waiting rooms of life.  And, in truth, the whole of life for believers is a waiting room of sorts.  We live in light of a hope in things to come.  Of course, there’s some bad theology that could spill forth from such a notion whereby we sit on our thumbs and wait for some trumpet so we can get the **** out of here.  But nonetheless, there is still the realization that we join with creation in groaning for what is to come.  Some various areas of life are placing this in the forefront of my mind and I thought if I wrote on them then maybe I would begin to  better understand what it means to wait well.

• We are moving forward on the adoption front and I hope to give a more thorough update in days to come.  There’s some unspoken movements of the heart occurring- I feel- as we ready our lives and home for another.  There is this overwhelming feeling of heaviness and joy that simultaneously sit on our shoulders as we move forward.  Joy with her coming; heaviness in how we got here.
• Ginny and I are engaging this Lent season together.  In doing so, we are attempting to shine a 46-day light on the immense sacrifice required for overwhelming gift we get to experience.
• I found the seasons to be a resonating mirror image of this picture as I walk through my yard and see small blooms arriving.

With such a backdrop, here’s an attempt to convey the way I’m feeling:

photo credit: melenahphotography

The dawn of spring is upon us.
And I stand in anticipation at the door, to welcome this long-gone stranger;
the interval hours have become too much, and I have staved off the dead-season with only the mumbled reminders that she will come again,
with blooms and growth and warmth of sun.

The winter season of my soul is unsteady; as often days I give up hope.
This is life now, so accept it.
There is no grandeur, only the mundane.
The barren landscape is remaining.
And wishes otherwise, are just that- wishes.

So I do my chores to bide my mind.
With head down, sure to avoid glimpses of the windows.
There is nothing to see when nothing changes.

I wander from my cabin, away from my toil
in search of anything to dissuade me.
Although my feet take the same steps as before,
there is no song from the bird, and all colors have retreated to armies of brown and gray.

I have remained while all else has died;
and I long to join the ones who went before me.

But today I am at the door on tips of toes.
With my eyes, I see her on the horizon.
dancing in victory,
carrying colors I had forgotten, songs no ear has perceived.

Her arrival is not tethered to my unflagging hope.
She has come in spite of me.
And I ready the wine and await her.