You must go through it


The wild cherries shiver with anticipation of summer in the cold spring wind, their blossoms a white shock above their dark trunks. Bluebirds fly back and forth between the wild long grass in the field and the sanctuary of the blossoming trees. Their song drifts up to my porch swing, and I smile, closing my eyes and tilting face to receive the warmth of the sun.


There is no perfect day, just like there's no perfect life. Clouds roll in and the cherries falter in the darkness of the coming storm. The mist touches the hills on the other side of the valley, and I am suddenly too cold on the porch, a shiver running down my spine. Anticipation or dread? When storms roll in, I feel their coming like clammy hands touching my soul. I shrink back, for who likes to weather storms? Internal or external. I think of the quote I wanted to like on Pinterest, "I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning to sail my own ship." (Aeschylus)

This sailing metaphor stuck with me. For what sailor likes to be caught in the warm and sunny doldrums of a windless, perfect glassy sea? A little storm brings fast winds into the sails and a little excitement to the decks.

The thing about adventure is that it gets old after a while. Days on end of that anticipation/dread sensation leave one longing for a day of doldrums. When the storms are thoughts, though, there is no more escaping them than you could a hurricane at sea. They come out of nowhere and there is no outrunning them. You simply must learn to weather them. This, too, shall pass.


The clouds lift, and the white trunks of the birches glisten in the sun, dripping wet with heavy leaves as their crown. The heavy leaves turn their dark green backs toward the wind and quake, flashing their chartruese tops every now and then in a wave of brilliance. That one white trunk marks my son's grave. I remember that storm, weathered now and just a memory. With the memory comes hope. Every storm I've weathered is a trophy in my case, reminding me that, with Him, all things are possible.


Five Minute Friday
Our whole group, writing on "the View"