The day is cold and dark and dreary,
It rains and the wind is never weary,
The vine still clings to the moldering wall,
But at every gust, the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary...
The winter rains have begun. The cold wet blew steadily last night, pouring down the panes and collecting in puddles, sounding incessantly on the roof. There is a thought dripping in my mind this morning as well, chilling my mood. It repeats, over and over, with deliberate monotony, the name I call myself after the conversation before sleep, "Failure. Failure. Failure." And I reach for the blanket of shame and retreat behind the barrier of guilt, habitually donning an icy demeanor to keep him at arm's length - The Man who misfortuned to speak the concern that resounded like disappointment in my ears.
We have been here before. These cold, wintery days have come in seasons past as well. My prevalent insecurities have made me prone to hear opportunities for correction and suggestions for help as proofs for my own list of negative titles for myself. And I have often sought solace in the name-calling. There are so many places I seem to fall short: the distracted housekeeper, the overwhelmed mother, the negligent wife, the subpar teacher, the lackluster friend.
My life is cold and dark and dreary,
It rains and the wind is never weary,
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And my life is dark and dreary....
But it is different this time. The blanket of shame seems threadbare and less comforting. The barrier of guilt seems flimsy and insignificant. The icy mask is heavy to wear and seems to just impair my vision. My habitual responses to hurt are exposed - they offer no healing. Their only use is for wallowing.
Why the change? Why can I see past the past this time? Is it the almost daily prayer admitting my inadequacy to accomplish anything good here and seeking for His strength? Is it the longing for a humility that doesn't just tip the head, but prostrates body and soul and lets all accolades for anything good go to the One who is worthy? Is it the desire to be as Job, and go from the mere hearing to the life-and-attitude-changing seeing?
I open to Hosea and Life speaks, "Come, let us return to the Lord, for He has torn us that He may heal us; He has struck us down, and He will bind us up. After two days, He will revive us; on the third day, He will raise us up, that we may live before Him. Let us know, let us press on to know the Lord, His going out is as sure as the dawn; He will come to us as the showers, as the spring rains that water the earth." (Hosea 6:1-3)
The false trappings of shame and guilt lie on the floor. I rise up. The dripping sound of failure drifts away, and I sense a cleansing wash of renewed purpose. The winter rain continues on. The cool air still lingers, but the promises of the new growth of spring pour down with every drop.
Be still, sad heart, and cease repining,
Behind the clouds is the sun, still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life, some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.
~H.W. Longfellow
It rains and the wind is never weary,
The vine still clings to the moldering wall,
But at every gust, the dead leaves fall,
And the day is dark and dreary...
The winter rains have begun. The cold wet blew steadily last night, pouring down the panes and collecting in puddles, sounding incessantly on the roof. There is a thought dripping in my mind this morning as well, chilling my mood. It repeats, over and over, with deliberate monotony, the name I call myself after the conversation before sleep, "Failure. Failure. Failure." And I reach for the blanket of shame and retreat behind the barrier of guilt, habitually donning an icy demeanor to keep him at arm's length - The Man who misfortuned to speak the concern that resounded like disappointment in my ears.
We have been here before. These cold, wintery days have come in seasons past as well. My prevalent insecurities have made me prone to hear opportunities for correction and suggestions for help as proofs for my own list of negative titles for myself. And I have often sought solace in the name-calling. There are so many places I seem to fall short: the distracted housekeeper, the overwhelmed mother, the negligent wife, the subpar teacher, the lackluster friend.
My life is cold and dark and dreary,
It rains and the wind is never weary,
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And my life is dark and dreary....
But it is different this time. The blanket of shame seems threadbare and less comforting. The barrier of guilt seems flimsy and insignificant. The icy mask is heavy to wear and seems to just impair my vision. My habitual responses to hurt are exposed - they offer no healing. Their only use is for wallowing.
Why the change? Why can I see past the past this time? Is it the almost daily prayer admitting my inadequacy to accomplish anything good here and seeking for His strength? Is it the longing for a humility that doesn't just tip the head, but prostrates body and soul and lets all accolades for anything good go to the One who is worthy? Is it the desire to be as Job, and go from the mere hearing to the life-and-attitude-changing seeing?
I open to Hosea and Life speaks, "Come, let us return to the Lord, for He has torn us that He may heal us; He has struck us down, and He will bind us up. After two days, He will revive us; on the third day, He will raise us up, that we may live before Him. Let us know, let us press on to know the Lord, His going out is as sure as the dawn; He will come to us as the showers, as the spring rains that water the earth." (Hosea 6:1-3)
The false trappings of shame and guilt lie on the floor. I rise up. The dripping sound of failure drifts away, and I sense a cleansing wash of renewed purpose. The winter rain continues on. The cool air still lingers, but the promises of the new growth of spring pour down with every drop.
Be still, sad heart, and cease repining,
Behind the clouds is the sun, still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life, some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary.
~H.W. Longfellow
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