A thunderstorm rumbles above me. The ground is thirsty; the grass has turned a hard brown and crunches beneath your feet. It has been too long for the rain. I can only imagine how the blades will be revived in the morning in the morning dew.
In Indiana, the first sounds of a lawnmower signal the presence of spring and warmer weather. I’ve never mowed a lawn in my life, thanks to the existence of my two older brothers. I had never paid so much attention to the plant until I had a whole bunch of it to take care of. And by “take care of”, I mean, pester my husband to mow when it seems to be getting too long. I plan to keep my “never mowed a lawn” badge until I change my mind about actually doing it. (Which will probably be never. Why ruin a good thing?)
No matter how dead, brown, and crunchy it gets in the heat of July, the grass always comes back. Unless you kill it with too much fertilizer. Or something. (Remember, I’m no expert, the whole never-mowed-a-lawn thing.)
Here’s my deal right now: I am worried the heck out about a lot of stuff. Finishing a house you want to leave is expensive, time-consuming, and filled with the frequent question “so, what’s next?”. Getting school supplies for my oldest son’s first year of school (although, I’m definitely looking forward to buying and organizing said things) has really made me think that I’m reverting back to my teenage years with these weird breakouts on my skin. Stress-induced, I’m sure. Have I mentioned my husband is a small business owner? And I’m at home keeping three people alive, writing on a blog, killing time until his return from down the hall. I worry I’m not giving my time properly to the people who need it, whereas I fear I give too much of it to others. I am hoping for redemption for a lot of people. I am trying to throw fear out my windows, but really, I’m just letting it hide in the empty space under my bed. All while yelling, of course, probably when the windows are open.
Worried. Stressed out. Concerned that the world will crash if I’m not sitting at rapt attention at all times.
I’m going to sound ridiculous. But I need the humor.
I need to be like the grass. I feel dry, dead, brown, crunchy. Like I haven’t had a good drink of Living Water in weeks. It has its seasons, the grass does. It goes dormant in the winter. Revived in the spring. Thirsty in the summer. To be resilient isn’t to be at rapt attention all the time, greener than green, perky. Resilient is to let the seasons come and go, never dying, and welcoming the rain always.
Gotta be like the grass, you guys.
The rain comes. It always does. God isn’t withholding His goodness from me. He is always good. Always loving. Always available. Always raining down peace, mercy, grace, and joy. Because that’s what He does.
I’m going to aim better. Throw my fears, worries, stresses out my windows. Get them out from under the bed. And give myself room to soak in the rain.