I wish God wrote in sharpie - big black block letters, right in front of my face, impossible to miss. I think people stop believing in Him when they realize that's not how He works.
He's certainly not one to write in black and white, if He were to even write at all.
I sit each day and stare out the window, hoping that maybe the once-green-and-now-golden stars that fall from the tree in my neighbor's yard will perhaps spell out a message for me as they dance toward the ground.
But their message is the same each day - the season is changing, leaving these crusty old branches barren and anxious to birth something beautiful again one day.
This is the way that God is speaking to me now - emptying my once-full arms that hold the weight of all things and old dreams, and carrying me into a dormant season where He can breathe new life and strength into my tired bones. My hope is that this winter will be a quiet one, less painful than fall, whose firestorm has left me burned out and broken down.
I need the next season, a winter for hibernating, bearing down deep into warmth and quiet and rest.
I ache for knotted scarves and wool socks and frosty-white mornings with steaming cups of tea. I ache for quiet - not of space, but of soul.
It's hard to imagine what these trees will look like come spring. I've never been here in the spring before.
Every evening I lace up my sneakers and step outside, to crush each fallen star under my heavy steps, and race to beat the moon back to our proper homes- his in the sky, and mine on the second floor. The days are short. I run faster.
I'll be the first to admit that I wish things would stay the same, but again - that's not how He works. He is drawing me further and further out, whispering to trust Him on the days when I can barely get out of bed.
Change hurts. Leaves fall. Winter comes.
But so does Spring.