Air feels sloshy, a last toss of confetti at winter’s farewell party. Snow melts as it kisses earth, lingering only in the pervading drifts and clods and lumps of earlier storms, resilient against spring’s shy zephyrs.
Soon enough spring will gather up her skirts from the ground, her shawl from tree and bush, and her hair from roof and hill top; soon she will dance her cadenza.
Soon, but not today. Today, she rests quiet, loitering in nook and cranny and lee.
She can wait.
She can afford to wait.
Autumn generously lent to winter and summer days of both warmth and frigid cold. Winter loans days or weeks to his fellow seasons, all interweaving in this annual gala ball.
Sand and mud and muck splatter over cement and asphalt, the mess of cleaning paintbrush and palette, preparing for a new work of art. Crunch and grind, gravel and clay: the dismal, boring necessities of change.
Birds snuggle quiet in branch and bough, waiting the moment to sing and fly unencumbered. Now they practice in the quiet.
And I walk in the stillness of Sunday, waiting with the world for spring, musing, with creation, over this intricate dance. Clasping hands, releasing grip, walking together, then twirling around each other: all in time with Grace.
Sometimes I forget the Artist’s sheer goodness—not just in His creative genius, but in Himself.
How often do I satisfy my aching heart with the weak hope that something good will come of it, instead of resting happy, knowing that the One creating good IS good ?
These things aren’t so easy to hear in the bustle. We listen better in the quiet.
So thank You God, for Sundays, when we can be quiet, and think about You, and what You do, and Who You are.
You are good . . .
and do good.