The winter here seems so long; the ground so dry and bleached.
I am not used staring at yellowed grass and dormant plants for so many months on end.
I suppose it is no coincidence that, in this harsher landscape, I have first seen and felt the harsher side of life.
My eyes, so used to lush green, have revolted at the sight of all this scorched yellow and parched brown. My heart is not used to my plans being thwarted; my spirit is not used to the pain and fear and hopelessness and helplessness in the eyes of young ones growing up in the bad parts of town whose stories I listen to week in week out.
Who can alter these harsh elements? Who can summon the clouds to bring a moments refreshment or relief to this parched land?
And yet, seasons do change. Drought eventually gives way to flood and spring always follows winter; always.
There is hope; even when it feels like there isn’t.
And I am more convinced than ever, that God, in withholding good things from us, absolutely has His sovereign and wise eye on what is more truly in our best interests; what is in His will (which is perfection), our good.
In this way I wonder that He in fact withholds no good thing from us, rather, He is always working for our very best.
Shunning my God in confusion, despair and anger feels cathartic but so does taking my anguish and sorrow to Him – the only one who can actually do something about it – this is my tentative hope – that He will change the season, and bring the sunshine and rain, in good time.