seasons

The geese are honking overhead like a siren for the coming cold. In their departure they forewarn. Farewell, fair weather friends; I can feel winter in your wake. 

Frosted glass is the new view — inside the house, atop the vehicles, through my glasses. It simply means there’s warmth on the inside, and that’s a sign of life. Warm blood pushing back against frigidity is a highborn effort. I’m thankful to be counted among those who take shelter in the pulsing flush of the living. 

Everything needs a bit more right now: the critters need bulk for the cold; the children need meat for the bones; the chilled need layers for comfort. I find myself searching for the more that they all need within cabinets, closets, and drawers. Sometimes it’s bare in there, so I stretch toward the places I can’t actually reach, in faith, and it’s never empty. We are full. 

Cold makes things constrict, and the human heart is no exception. It’s only natural to draw in and tense up when nothing feels good. That’s when we remember that He is good, no matter how we feel. My feelings would burn me at the stake, if I let them. That’s not the right way to produce heat, though. Dealing gently with my soul will keep it from freezing — keep it as thawed thumping flesh. This way it can feel, and won’t give way to frostbite in the bleak of winter. 

I want to set my face towards each new season, without fear or misinterpretation. There’s specific preparation and work for each one. I don’t want to endure it; I want to embrace it. This is the difference between surviving and thriving, really, and I’ve lived enough of my life white-knuckling it through. Open hands and an open heart can hurt more, but it’s the best form to live your best life.