Everyone else deep in the sun, while I watch from the shade. Each in a different month, blooming in our own time. Waiting for my spring, waiting for my sun, seeking the outcome of the future.
The frost on my field, acquainted in patience. Planted to prosper, just waiting to bloom under the sun. For the harvest will be grand. I believe my season is coming. So I wait standing in the cold, dripping in the pain, developing in wonder. Catching curiosity, seeking wisdom, and battling culture.
Knowing His promise is grand, but His timing propels the world. Setting each event in time, never introducing a catalyst. Created in a perfect melody, we are found in our note. Our lives written like a symphony, orchestrated for greatness; embracing the seasons of life that we live, as they come to us. We are buried to grow. With each mile marked, from start to end, our life has been plotted, for both you and me friend.
I believe in my season- that is yet to come- because, I believe in His promise. The oil in my lamp, always enough; through the days and the weeks of cold, my heart emits your warmth. Your fire within me, light shining from my soul, here to illuminate the world we now know. Your world, created in a season, now in winter itself – waiting for your richness, captivated by your greatness.
You favor time, as all the memories show. Our sight is merely focused on the present, but we all look past the very first present. Gifted in a stable, your time started to tick, until one day the pieces of the world will all click. Until then, my seasons come and seasons go. So I sit, soaking in your Presence, waiting in your goodness, admiring your greatness.