Throwback thought day: Springtime Day

four-seasons-00

One thing I like about going back through my old writing is seeing what I once wrestled with. What’s even more amazing to me is seeing what I wasn’t wrestling with. Depression has been a part of my life for a very long time. This poem, which I had also made in to a song, showcases the darkness that often drove my creativity. There was a sense of desperation that I lived with and it often came out in a spiritual context – mostly because that was the only context in which I had any sense of a grounded identity. I wasn’t fighting my own internal battles at the time; in fact I was largely blind to them. I was taking on the world instead.

When I wrote this I’m sure I felt strongly that the “harvest” was those who had not heard the gospel of Christ. While that still holds truth, I have a much more broad perspective of the needs of those who have been left out of the banquet, stuck in the cold harsh winter. They are not the spiritually ignorant that I once believed them to be. They are lonely. They are hurting. They are the ones that our traditional spiritual culture has marginalized and largely abandoned.

I also have dropped the assumption that operating in the context of “the church” equates with sitting at the “banquet of the Father.” That was, to say the least, an arrogant assumption. The church can just as easily represent the harshest of winters as it can the new life of spring.

The work that the harvesters have to do is much simpler than I once believed it to be: love and grace. It’s what the world needs to see more from the church and those who would claim to immulate the life of Christ.

It’s regrettable that I had to totally step outside the walls of the church in order to see that truth. But I am grateful for that journey, that season in my own life.

Springtime Day

The birds stopped singing this morning
Mosaic mountains crumbled to the ground
The greens the reds the yellows turned to brown
Painting a dreary picture

And the southern wind’s turned north now
Sweeping through the valley with a chill
Indiscriminately touching what it will
The cold hand of winter

And we snuggle with ourselves in our cozy nests
And we nash and we wail and we beat our breasts
And we watch all that we’ve built just fade away
Then we sit around waiting for another springtime day

And the harvest lies there waiting
Ripened food left rotting in the field
While the children sit down to the father’s meal
Dining at his table

And the lamb shows his colors
Purest white stained a crimson red
He says he’s here not for the living but the dead
As only he is able

And we snuggle with ourselves in our cozy nests
And we nash and we wail and we beat our breasts
And all that we have built just fades away
And we sit around waiting for another springtime day

We’re waiting for the sun to rise to brighten up our painted skies
While the foolish man just tells the wise, your wisdom is in vain
We’re waiting for the sun to rise but the light has come and left us blind
Unless we lift up reverent eyes to the lamb that was slain

Yet the river’s running full now
The wonderland is flowing in the streams
All of nature is as peace or so it seems
But the winter again is still coming

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