Embracing the seasons

   
See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone. Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come. –Song of Songs 2:11–12
     
     
As I write this—Friday morning—the day is overcast, rainy, cool, dreary. Patches of snow linger about the hillsides, in crevices—wherever the ground is in more shadow than sun. Where there isn’t snow, there’s mud or spongy, marshy terrain.
     
On days like this I’d rather strap on my CPAP mask, pull a pillow over my head, snuggle beneath a quilt, and succumb to slumber. Or bury my nose in a good book. Anything but look outside.
     
As I glance out the back patio door, though, I see clusters of green and white snowdrops pushing up through the rotting leaves of the forest floor behind my house. And I know the daffodils will soon emerge below the stone wall in the front yard.
     
I’m so ready for spring.
     
But not this wet, muddy, mushy mess that’s spring in these parts. Which is why spring is my least favorite season.
     
But it is what it is.
     
Not all good and not all bad.
     
Just like winter, which really isn’t as bad as we make it out to be.
     
Winter is a time for growing things to rest, for animals to hibernate. It’s a time when I spend long evenings crocheting, reading, or doing something I’d feel guilty doing when the weather’s nice and I can get outside without falling and breaking something.
     
Every season has its good aspects and not-so-good aspects. What we choose to focus on determines whether or not we find the joy in the season.
     
Just like life.
     
I’m not just referring to the seasons of life as we tend to think of them—childhood, youth, adulthood, middle age, and finally our sunset years.
     
I’m talking about the seasons of life-change—when our lives change in ways we don’t plan or want. A financial setback. Illness. Disability. A wayward child. A broken relationship. Betrayal. Death. Divorce. Anything that leads to brokenness—a broken heart, a broken spirit, broken dreams. Seasons of pain and drought and floods of tears. Seasons when the roads are impassable and we can go no further. Or, as the old timers say, when we get the stuffing knocked out of us.

As I write this, I'm thinking of a dear writing colleague and friend who recently lost her husband of 35 years to cancer. I'm thinking of one of my little flock who is the caregiver for her mother, who has suffered a series of strokes, each one leaving her more debilitated than the last one.
     
These times, like seasons, are not here to stay. They, too, will pass.

We can spend the season bemoaning our fate, questioning God, and making ourselves more miserable.
     
Or we can embrace it for what it is, remembering that if we have chosen to believe in a sovereign, loving God, we know whatever He allows in our lives has a purpose we may not understand or see this side of eternity.
     
Child of God, push on in faith, trust that all things WILL work out for your good (Romans 8:28), and remind yourself that nothing can separate you from His love (Romans 31–39).
     
Only when we choose to embrace each season for what it is do we find the daffodils of hope and the snowdrops of joy sprinkled in the places only the SON can reach.
     
     
Thank you, God, that You are the One in control of the seasons of my life. Help me to embrace whatever season You send, knowing Your plan and purpose is for my ultimate good. Amen.

More tea: Read Ecclesiastes 3:1–8

Looking for a speaker for your event? I have a slew of topics listed on my SPEAKER PAGE. If you don't find one you're interested in, I can develop one especially for you. Email me at michelehueybooks@yahoo.com. I'd love to connect with you.

CURL UP AND READ:

How about a love story of an Army nurse and a Dustoff pilot who meet, fall in love, and get married while on their tour of duty during the Vietnam War, only to have him go MIA and show up 40 years later with amnesia? (The Heart Remembers) 

Or the story of a 50-something woman with a lackluster marriage who wants to fall head over heels in love just one more time before she dies? (Before I Die) 

Or the story of a retired couple who up and sell everything to travel the country in a fifth wheel? (Fifth Wheel series of short stories available for download)

Or maybe you'd prefer something inspirational for your devotional reading. (God, Me & a Cup of Tea for download and in print)

When in deep water ...

Punxsutawney Area Middle School swimming pool, where I'm learning to swim

     
When you pass through the waters, I will be with you. – Isaiah 43:2 NIV
     
     
The first couple of times I jumped off the low diving board at the local swimming pool, I landed on the sloped side near the ladder, so I didn’t think it was a problem that I couldn’t swim.
     
A teenage girl wants to do the things her friends are doing, right? And I was tired of playing it safe in the shallow water while everyone else was having a blast in the deep end of the pool. Back then I didn’t even know how to tread water. The only thing I knew how to do was the dead man’s float.
     
“How hard could it be?” I thought as I watched the others splashing off the diving board that long ago summer day. All I had to do was hop off the side so I landed on the slope near the ladder. So I swallowed my trepidation and took my place in line.
     
My strategy worked twice. The third time, however, I plunged into waters above my head.
     
I don’t remember how many times I bobbed to the surface, panicked and thrashing, my short life passing before my closed eyes. Then strong arms pulled me to safety. As I sat on the concrete beside the crowded pool, gasping and trembling, a lifelong fear was born.
     
For five decades, deep water terrified me. My kids all learned to swim, no thanks to me. When we went swimming, I stayed in the shallow water. When we went boating, I made sure I had a life vest strapped on tight.
     
Then my son and daughter-in-law bought an above-ground pool. Hot summer days found me cooling off in sun-warmed water that only came up to my neck. I learned to tread water and to propel myself beneath the surface. I practiced floating and splashed from one side of the pool to the other. As long as I could touch bottom (and my head was above the water), I was fine.
     
Maybe this long, cold winter made me stir crazy, but earlier this month I bought a pass for the indoor pool at the local middle school and began swimming lessons. By December, I told myself, I’d swim from one end of the pool to the other.
     
Last week, at the end of my second lesson, I met that goal, swimming on my back, my instructor beside me every stroke of the way.
     
“You’re doing fine,” she’d say. “Just a little farther.”
     
And so I kept going—swimming in 12 feet of water—something I didn’t think I’d do for a long time. But I couldn’t have done it without my instructor there beside me, encouraging me, giving me confidence with her presence.
     
It’s the same way with my swim through life.
     
When I must navigate deep waters, I’m not alone. My Instructor is beside me, encouraging me, ready to pull me out should I go under. His presence gives me the confidence I need to push on, just a little farther, stroke by stroke, until I finally reach the other side.
     
Thank you, Father God, that You never leave me or forsake me—even when I get in over my head. Amen.

More tea: Read Isaiah 43:1–7

Goose bumps and God things

Ask, and it will be given to you. – Matthew 7:7 (NIV)
    
About a year ago a small group of women began praying for a Christian women’s conference in Punxsutawney. The following spring I learned about licensed marriage and family therapist Deborah Dunn’s Southern Christian Women speaking ministry. Her vision to reach out to women in small towns who had neither time nor finances to attend a bigger conference resonated in my soul. I contacted her. Would she be available in the fall?
    
“The only date I have open this fall is Oct. 16,” she told me.

“Pencil me in,” I said.
    
Somewhere in the exchange of emails, she mentioned that she keeps her speaking fees low not only so more women could afford to attend, but also to help the sponsoring organization raise money for a worthy cause. I thought of the Punxsutawney Christian School, a cause close to my heart. The recession, I knew, was taking a toll on the school. Maybe this was a way I could help.
    
I think this is when I first got conference-related goose bumps—and they weren’t caused by fear or cold, but a keen awareness that Someone other than I was orchestrating this, and I was being allowed the privilege of being a small part of a God thing. And it was evident from the beginning, from the way folks jumped on board, offering help, that this was indeed a God thing. Renowned Christian author Karen Kingsbury donated an autographed book for a silent auction. Artist Dianna Moretti painted four posters, each depicting a season. These, too, were auctioned off. The sound techs at the church we used donated their services for the day.
    
I have neither time nor space to relate all that gave me goose bumps from April until Oct. 16, but let me tell you about the hankies.
    
I had 100 bookmarks printed with a poem I’d written that went with the conference “Seasons of Life” theme—“Mama’s Hankie.”  My plan was to attach ladies’ hankies and use them as appreciation gifts for donations to the school. But where would I get 100 women’s hankies—preferably old hankies?
    
While we prayed and searched, I began to fret. I wanted to give a healthy donation to the school—but, with slow ticket sales, would we bring in enough to break even? We sent out a request to PCS parents for hankies. We spread the word. One of the planning team gals, Sue, hunted for hankies everywhere she went—and became our “hankie lady.”
    
One week before the conference, I counted exactly 100 hankies to be washed, ironed and tied to the bookmarks. About four were stained and couldn’t be used. But wouldn’t you know—exactly four more hankies came in that week.
    
My doubts and fears vanished in another bout of goose bumps: A God who cares enough to provide 100 hankies would surely see that our financial obligations were met.
    
They were—and we gave a healthy donation to the school.
    
When You call me to serve, Lord, and fear and doubt begin to assail, remind me—with goose bumps if You have to—that You are in control. Amen.

Special-Tea: Read Matthew 7:7-11

Dog days

    God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble. – Psalm 46:1 (NIV)

Ah, the dog days of summer—the time of the year when hot, muggy weather leaves you sweating, panting, and seeking the coolest spot you can find—and counting your blessings if your home and place of work are air-conditioned.

Since I don’t work outside my home and my house doesn’t have AC, I count my blessings that I live in the country, far from hot pavement and 1,800 feet above sea level (a regional “mountaintop”), and surrounded by trees, which provide shade and coolness. Late afternoon, when the sun comes around and its blistering rays pour through my front windows, I pull down the shades, turn up the fans, and head for the back porch, which faces the wooded hillside; or the hammock, slung between two trees at the edge of the woods; or my son’s swimming pool next door—and sometimes all three.

I even have a “dog days” schedule: Up at 6, daily walk, breakfast and quiet time, then be at my computer by 8. I’ll work until 2, then head for the back porch or the hammock for a couple of hours of reading. I’ve a dozen volumes of both writing books and leisure books. While it may look like I’m not working, I’ll be learning about the craft of writing, analyzing the way other writers write, and when my eyes are closed, thinking about what I’ve read and plotting my next novel. Around five I’ll mosey to the kitchen and fix a quick, light, easy supper, which we’ll enjoy on the back porch. After supper, I’ll stack the dishwasher, then head for the porch again until it’s time to get ready for bed. Lights out at 10 p.m.

That’s how I deal with the dog days of summer.

“Dog days” got its name from the ancient Romans, who believed the hot, muggy weather from July 24 to August 24 was caused by Sirius, the “Dog Star,” the brightest star in the sky. Dog days were believed to be an evil time “when the seas boiled, wine turned sour, dogs grew mad, and all creatures became languid, causing to man burning fevers, hysterics, and phrensies,” according Brady’s Clavis Calendarium, (1813). Indeed, my own children experienced mysterious fevers during extended periods of hot, muggy weather. Their fevers, I was told by an experienced mother, was the way their little bodies coped with the heat. I was advised to take them shopping—just walk around an air-conditioned store, dawdling in the frozen food section.

Life, too, has its dog days—times when things beyond your control stifle you and slow you down to a standstill, seeking a refuge. When all your efforts leave you panting and sweating, how do you cope? One way is to take the perspective of Job’s wife, who told the hapless man, “Curse God and die!” (Job 2:9).

Or you can adopt the philosophy of David, whose numerous seasons of dog days are painstakingly chronicled in the Old Testament: “God is our refuge and strength, an ever-present help in trouble” (Psalm 46:1).   
     
      Dear God, remind me when the dog days of life come around again, that they are only for a season, and that You are the best way to cope with them. Amen.

     Special-Tea: Psalm 46

How do you cope with the "dog days" of summer? Leave a comment!