Singing Snowbanks and Sandbags

[I wrote the first draft of this piece on March 17. Would have made more sense to publish it then, when there was still snow on the ground, but...well, I saw snowflakes on my way to work this morning. Winter is still struggling to move on.]

"For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven..." (Eccesiastes 3:1)

I soaked up a woodsy walk this afternoon, following a trail through hills in that awkward stage between cross-country ski course and golf course. There's been enough sun this week to slump the snowcover down to a smooth, trackless crust. I saw no evidence of skis, boots, or even animals using the trail recently, except for one turkey.

I marveled at the tranquility, holding my hand parallel to the ground and feeling the kiss of both seasons: the sun warmed the top while the chill radiated up from the snow to shiver against my palm. Cloaked in dormancy, the woods seemed as though they could remain this way forever.

And then I heard it. A few paces ahead, a lively gurgling. The entire hill was singing. Beneath the icy crust, snowmelt from the golf course above was racing -joyously- to the lake below.

Couldn't see it, but it was rushing beneath my feet. Alive. Beautiful.

Turns out winter cannot last forever.

Still masked in ice, the lake looks deceptively placid as well; but it must be rising every day. Waterfront land owners all over the state are marking the increase and responding to protect their property accordingly.

A few sunny days, and we shift from the drowsiness of winter to the near-panic of flood. Snowbanks to sandbags.

I stood on the hill today and pondered it. I've been waiting for the melt, ready to pounce on the first hint of spring. But all the news stories about flooding this week have reminded me that the changing of the seasons brings with it new challenges.

It's true in life, too. How often I chafe against an immovable snowbank, wondering if it will be winter forever, and then, when it does melt, I'm scrambling around for sandbags, somehow unprepared for the deluge I anticipated.

I ask God to work, to change something, to move me to the next thing. No immediate changes occur, and I get comfortable in my stillness. And then change comes and all I see is my unreadiness for it, all the ways I could have prepared back when life was still.

Sandbags protect what property owners have deemed most valuable. In a season of overflow, boundaries regarding our priorities become crucial. The decisions about what's non-negotiable are easiest made before the flood arrives.

Decisions about which relationships are most important. Decisions about what and who will have the strongest voice to speak into your life. Decisions about what must stay and what can go.

Times of stillness are perfect for putting down deep roots in our relationship with God and His Word, for allowing what He says about us to become the most important things about us. As far as He's concerned, there is no such thing as a season of insignificance.

It's not easy to sit in a season of waiting and somehow be content and prepared at the same time. Perhaps the best prayer is this one, borrowed from Corrie Ten Boom:

"Lord, prepare me for what You've prepared for me."

(I owe many of my thoughts on this topic to Alicia Britt Chole and her powerful book Anonymous.)