In Every Season
Without spring rain, summer would not bloom. Winter pregnancies hold precious spring babies. Each of it perfectly aligned for the maximum good of the earth and its inhabitants.
Why, then, do I long for my life to be a constant 70 degrees?
Life itself moves in cycles. Seasons.
So, too, must I.
And begrudge it not.
How can I curse the storms while praising the cleanse they bring? Wish away a chill that makes the sun feel more glorious?
In every season, there is a purpose.
In every season, there is beauty.
In every season, I can love my life.