WINTER ARRIVED TODAY

Winter arrived today. The winds are greedy and fierce, and ripping away the burnished gold remnants and tossing them hurriedly to the ground. The sky is bands of iron and lead and bright ivory. The earth appears stunned and a bit frightened.

Winter is more than a hint now, and has announced its coming with a splattering of cold ferocity. The trees are being stripped bare, and the ground browns and hardens. Yes, there will be a few warmer days which carry memories of an Indian summer, but for the most part the methodical march to Winter has begun. There is simply no stopping it now, and we are all aware of its steely determination.

Folks get anxious with its coming, and claim to dread how it traps and punishes us for months at a time, but that is not it. Winter is just too candid about death and dying, and too familiar with this thing called aging. This is the season of solitude and stillness and silence, and it reverberates with eerie echoes of the vanishing of summer play.

Winter is when we see Time through a wide scoped lens. Childhood has been swept under a vile stained Oriental rug, and adolescence is no more than a whiff of sex and strutting and pretending to be bold. Adulthood has proven a cruel joke, all duty and obligation and haste, and the absence of adventure or joy seeming almost absolute. We try to act as if we accept it, and yet it has so drained us of our yearnings.

We are not angry or even hurt. We have our days of satisfaction of even significance. Still, so much of it has been a disappointment, a failure to live up to its billing, like a Christmas spoiled by a family spat or squabble. Winter weaves its stern shawl about our shoulders, and we know that we will be tucked in under blankets of our losses. What makes Winter truly brutal, is simply all it knows of our failures and flops and refusals to forgive.

No, the dread of Winter is not created out of some fear of record snows or even cold, but for the whispered messages it delivers on things being over for another year. It is a time of passage, a movement of the clock, a slowing of the pulse, and a waning appetite for dawn. Like the tufted pearl grey sky which lower before unleashing a wild and wicked series of drifts, grinding our lives to a halt, Winter comes with immense insight into the brevity of Life as a whole.

I am listening to it as I write. It’s rumbling train whistling winds, and its fury over our having failed to notice the spectacular presence of autumn. It does not knock, but knocks down the door to our soul. It comes in unannounced and takes up residence. It is here. Not a visitor, but making itself very much at home. It has plans for us.

Winter slouches into an easy chair readies itself to tell many a good story. Tales of hard fought wisdom won, and sagas of journeys that led to love or hope or happiness or all three. These stories will be what enlivens our status as victims of cabin fever, and will heal us into Spring. These good stories, which will bounce about our lie battered brains, and dance a heated dance with our memories of years gone by, will be our soul’s wintering feast.

These good stories are the beauty of Winter. Even more lovely than a first snow, or a black velvet sugared sky. These stories will arouse longings deep within us, and move us to the higher ground of wanting another go, another year, another try. These words coated in the Word of God, will inspire us, will tickle us back to Life, but Life on God’s terms and not our own. Winter is when we do not become better, but smarter. It is when we finally recognize the wisdom of following stars – as we are all made of stardust, and it is only logical.

Winter arrived today, and like a stern elementary school teacher with wrinkles galore and a hard grey bun atop her head, will tell us to STOP AND LOOK AND LISTEN – get ready to learn. Now be quiet children, and listen up, way up, and let the heavens inform you of the Truth of this crazy difficult life of yours.

BROKEN

She called me “broken” on the phone. It made my whole being wince. Was I? I heard her words as an assessment of failure. I anxiously wondered if others also saw me as falling apart. Coming undone. Fragmented. I envisioned myself as a puddle containing bits and pieces of what was once a strong proud soul. I felt shook to my very core.

I took the whole next day to sort it out. This is one of the blessings of being retired. The time to truly reflect. To CLOSELY examine oneself. To take a good long hard look. To be rigorously honest about how you are in point of fact doing, or in this case, being. I did not need to rationalize her words, nor run away from them, or stuff them with food or drink or both. I would just let myself think it over.

I am broken. Not in half, but there are large shards that have been chipped away over the past few years. I am not nearly as confident. I feel wary of the opinion of others. Suspicious of their judgments, even when they appear to be positive. I am anxious. I fret a lot. I dwell on the negative. I do not feel a good deal of hope. I have always been a worrier, but now I feel coated in a vile leprosy of worry warts from head to toe.

My wife is gone. My wish to make a huge difference at my home church, was whittled down to a few shavings. My body feels angry with me, and ready to break its trust at any given moment. I don’t seem able to shed the pounds I so badly need to lose. My spirit feels as though it is approaching bankruptcy. I have to talk myself into enjoying each day.

It is no great puzzle, the shape I am in. I have endured a lot these last three years. The horrid shriveling death of my wife. A ministry that tripped and skinned its knee and was left there whimpering. Two good friends battling cancer. A body neglected, giving me the wake-up call of open heart surgery. My knees, now barely able to carry my excess weight. Three very humbling years.

My soul limps along. No need for a cast. However, my spirit feels the pain of carrying too many burdens, and I am too exhausted to lift much for much longer. I am a bit broken. Not shattered. Not ruined. I just am not whole these days. I do my best, but it takes much more time to get even less done. I am frustrated. I yearn to be young and recklessly hopeful again. But, I know too much, and am just too aware.

As I spend this day reflecting upon my broken Self, I choose to go for a ride out into the country. It is early Autumn, and this is the first cool to cold day. It feels heavenly to me, and I keep my windows open wide. I look to capture photos of the first changing colors of the season. I find two green trees, each smeared with burnt orange tops.

I am calm on this drive. Content. Conscious that I am growing closer to my God. This troubled time has ironically created true spiritual intimacy. I have chosen ample solitude to be alone with my thoughts and feelings, which is often to be with God. I recognize in one single lovely moment, that my brokenness has sought healing in the Grace of God. I have at least been wise enough to turn to God for relief and a burst of new energy and life.

I have an image come to mind. It is the concept of grafting on Grace. Though I cannot or fully replace the broken parts of my soul, I can graft them on as Grace. I can surrender. I can wave the white flag. I can let go. I can affirm that God alone is in charge, and God alone will enable me to function as a whole being. God will take over when and where I cannot.

In Colossians, we are told to wear Christ like a cloak. To put him on, and wear him. To wear Christ’s compassion, kindness, patience, courage, and love, when we cannot do it ourselves. Well, this past three years I have learned I cannot do it myself. The grafting on of Grace is my only alternative.

The clean air is blowing in my face. The sun is setting, heralding the colors which will soon douse the earth. I feel solid. Fully alive. Broken, but repaired. A spirit with a limp, but still capable of following. Now walking the walk. Broken but beautiful. Glued tightly and evenly, so nobody will notice. Only I know that I am held together by the unconditional love and forgiveness of a most merciful God.