for us, today.

the world is big and small.

isn't it amazing that even we have purpose to our brief, morning dew lives.

i hope that spring is sweeping under your feet, wherever you are. that your steps are bouncing over mud and fresh green grass. that somewhere in the distance, you hear the rough start-up of a forgotten mower and a cardinal, all in the same hour. or maybe just some distant thunder, or a warm breeze that smells like grills and vanilla ice cream.

i hope you can hear crickets in the evening, and the late-to-bed sun draws you outside to play. on porches. on swings. to ballparks and carnivals.

i am hopeful that this life I live is not for me, about me, though parts of it were done for me, and by me. only when i rest — and by rest i mean, stop striving — that i see the work of God is still at work, and then only at work. 

and that's the thing about spring. we can rake the ground, open the windows, beg the skies as much as we want. we can't speed the end of winter as hard as we try.

when it's time, it's time. next thing you know, it rains for three days and the earth is breaking green. everywhere you look, it's green. and you can't even remember that desperation that wearied your hands just a week ago. there is no sight of snow or below 30 temperatures. i laugh at these things as the birdseed is quickly devoured by nuthatches and chickadees.

that's the thing I am learning about trusting in God's sovereignty. in acknowledging that it's not my sky. it's not my rain. my life is the soil, but not the seeds. only his hand will bring the right kind of fruit on these trees.

and when it's time, it's time.