Springtime, Happy Days and Poems

Can I possibly be such a fickle creature? Just last week I was truly in the depths of despair, and now, just because the sun is shining warm on my face and a few tulips are coming up, the blood is jubilantly running through my veins again. I'm half ashamed of myself! But mostly just glad to be human and so in tune to the rhythms of the earth. And even now, as I write, all of my bedding is blowing on the clotheslines. I know tonight, I will snuggle in under fresh sheets and a down comforter that smells of sky, and earth, and health, and the delicious contentment that promises me that summer is certain to come! 

I have to warn you though, that my inner poet is unabashedly throwing verses my way almost as quickly as I can write them down. (So avoid my blog for a while if poetry is not your thing.)

It's not just me, the little poets in my house are feeling it too. The other day I told Isabelle that I had written three poems that afternoon, her response was, "Mom! You're cool! Read them to me!" 

I love that they share with me the pleasure of a good poem. Writing them as well as reading them. Maybe it's because, thanks to Charlotte Mason, I try to read them a poem everyday. (But just like every other real family, we leave off it for times, until I think, "O, we've got to start that up again!") I find ones that are lovely, sad, clever, funny. We all love the play on words and emotions that make a poem, the delicious last lines that wrap it all up.

I love the mystery of a well written poem. Sometimes, we might never know what prompted the poet to write what they did. It's the sharing of a brief thought or feeling. We may never know the life circumstance that brought it about but the feeling of the soul is communicated through the written words. 

Recently, I've been reading a book about the stories behind some of the greatest hymns. It has been so inspiring. I have been enjoying the fellowship of the saints as I read about my sisters and brothers in the faith, through ages past. Many of the most beautiful hymns were written in times of unbelievable grief and distress. A testimony to God's faithfulness in giving His children "beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness, that they might be called trees of righteousness, the plantings of the Lord, that He might be glorified." (Isaiah 61:3)

 And so, it is spring and I'm alive to love these days. Pink rubber boots in squishy mud, lovely mud cakes, marking out the existence of little girls in mud splattered skirts. Rosy, freckled cheeks, bursting through the door, hands behind her back, shouting, "Mom! I have a surprise!" At which time she thrusts me a warm egg. Several times a day. I can breathe deep, life is good. 

More importantly, God is good. The One who has created all this. The One who knew that I needed this taste of spring. The One who makes exchanges like beauty for ashes, praise for heaviness. The One who will refine me but will never, no never, let me go.