Ok, spring, let's do this.
Hey there, little heart, there's grace for this too.
Oh, and you too, weary spirit, lift your eyes to the hills.
How about we spend a week in the mountains.
We can see my sister.
Shop with my mom.
Listen to the creek thaw.
Then we'll work. We'll work hard.
We'll sketch and dream, and step out into some new territory.
Confidently. Without disclaimers.
We'll go to the City and record some music.
(And let's go see the Avett Brothers.)
Let's empty out closets and make deliveries to second-hand shops.
Let's write more, for us, for them.
The guitar is a friend. Let's put our unspoken things there.
The pen is a confidant. Let her spill.
There's a little girl watching, growing, and asking.
Let's love without restraint. Give her the mountains and the valleys, the truth and the spirit, the hands to hold and the arms to protect. And Grace. The Gospel grace. The knowing of brokenness, the honest emptiness, then the story of the man who rescues us.
Dear mind that races, and wakes before dawn to pray and worry... how about you give up the old song? It's on repeat and it's not worth listening to.
And, about that stack of books? I think it's time.
Sure, people are falling in love, getting married, having babies,
making dreams come true.
And some people are dying, grieving,
letting go, scared, uneasy, desperate, reaching, waiting.
But in all this things, in some ways,
so are you.
So let's take the week to wring out the winter. It's ending. Winter is one of those lingering friends who you love in the first 5 minutes, but after three hours it's the same old story. It's time for her to leave. So we'll wave goodbye from these hillsides and wait for the spring rain. The rain that could've been snow, but it's not.
We'll dream about the summer. The ocean. The camping. The kayaks. The lakes. The festivals. The sunburns, the road trips, the "how will we all fit", and the "let's just rent a bus" conversations.
We'll take the prayers and whisper them out. To surrender. To thank God for winters that come and cover. For winters that kill so that something else can grow.
Because I need the winter to lift. Don't you?
I need her to spin away.
I need the warmth, the rain, the earth to break and breathe.
And that's why I've come here to say this to you. To wring. From this mountainside. And of course,
to lift up our eyes and see where our help comes from.