Donald Miller said that the seasons remind that we must keep changing; that that is God's way.
I immersed in a few of his books in 2010.......I remember always sighing as I read, feeling a longing to soak fully in the words on the pages and the ideas.
He says that life is a living cast with a billion beautiful characters and it's almost over for you and for me. He continues saying that it doesn't matter how old you are; it is coming to a close quickly....your roll in this script. Soon the credits will roll and all of your friends will fold out of your funeral and drive to their homes in cold and still silence. That sounds a bit morose, but when I read it the first time, it was sort of riveting because I, of course, was and am still living, playing my part and the words lead me to think about my life and the limited lines that are mine to give.
I have a limited amount of lines.
I have a limited amount of, "I love you's" and "How can I help you's" and "I'm sorry's". I can only smile a limited amount of smiles and bandage a few boo-boos, help resolve a few more disputes, pray prayers, fall to sleep a few more times. It is all limited by the amount of already decided days that I will occupy within my human frame and it is yet moving along all around me, even as I type the play moves on.
It's moving along like a slow moving stream........
We were on a short vacation just before school was to begin that year in 2010 and as I sat near a slow moving creek where our boys were fishing, I read Donald Miller and I wrote a note to myself. I encouraged myself to try and live "present"...to try and live engaged and present and on purpose for all of my days. "Keep trying, Rhonda......keep working to be more patient, more supportive, more helpful, more nurturing....more alive and more here.....try, try. And try not to take for granted; try to be present in your precious moments."
It is two years since and now summer has changed to autumn and I felt it so clearly, maybe because I was changing too..... like the seasons; by the hand of the King, falling backwards into the languid stream of amazing grace, only being carried by it, not by my mad rowing....not my trying at all.
Changing not by trying, but by yielding like the season, to the author's hand of change. Not growing up, taking hold, figuring it all out, and working so hard, but by letting loose, becoming more like a child, more dependent, more willing.
The seasons remind that we must keep changing, he says.