Dear Season of In-Between,
I hate you.
I hate what it feels like when you are around. It’s so uncomfortable, like sandpaper on my skin. Your voice is like the mating call of an annoying bug in my bedroom at night, ceaselessly keeping me from falling asleep. Yet, when I get frustrated enough to turn the lights on and search for you,
You are nowhere to be found.
You are the biggest tease on earth. Your promise dances so tantalizingly out of reach. It’s like you are a beautiful dancer, and I’m a ravenous man chasing you and grasping for the end of your dress. It’s as if with every sexy eye glance and curl of your finger, you are telling me:
“Long for me,”
Then you sweep away just in the nick of time, and I am left without you again.
You make me cry. All the time. Tears upon tears for what I want. Tears upon tears for promises unanswered, for dreams unrealized.
Tears upon tears for the reality of my mediocrity, and the juxtaposition of the elegance of my promised land.
I hate how you make me dissatisfied with where I am. I hate that you make me always want more. I hate that I can’t simply exhale a sigh of relief, and look around myself and think:
“I have everything I need.”
Because you are like the shadow in the corner,
Cackling quietly so only I can hear,
Singing softly: “No you don’t. You don’t have me.”
God loves you. So much.
To me, you’re a cackling, flaky, asshole.
But to Him,
An abundant field of possibilities,
A rushing river that could bring life,
A blank canvas for Him to use to cultivate my heart,
A season to plant seeds for the future,
So that life can spring forth at a later time.
You are my least favorite season. My most avoided stage of life.
But to God, you are His favorite. He looks at you hungrily, with excitement in his eyes.
Your hard, bitter, barren winters,
Your long days,
Your stretching hours,
Your boring, monotonous hills of time,
Are the remedy,
To my broken, sinful soul.
And if He loves you…I guess I will learn to love you too.
Your begrudgingly loving friend,