He brought me out into a broad place; he rescued me, because he delighted in me. ~Psalm 18:19
The season lights us up, for unto us a child is born and we believe that he will undo all the broken, sick, divorced and distressed mess that is ours.
The new theologians tell me it is worthwhile to cast insults to God, for he is big enough to shoulder them, they say. This is thing to do-- curse the seasons.
Arkansas has gifted us with a second spring, the weather having broken and pulled everything verdant from the grave. There are tender shoots of garden Kale here.
These seeds didn't sprout in the late summer, and I was frustrated by their stubbornness. They are new purple, now, four arms reaching from my depleted garden soil.
These are the tenderest shoots I will see this winter, and I leave them for the deer that will sniff them out and bless me for mercy, even in the starving season.
This is the best blessed season, the one with kale, prayers, and mangers. The one with baby ornaments, and tidings of comfort and joy. This is the season of metaphors.