A Joyous Perspective on Letting it Lay: Don't disrupt what isn't ready for Sunshine.

On this Friday at the Thought Tale Hour with the Henderson's, the dates on the calendar speak loudly to me. This Sunday, April 9th, will mark the 36th birthday of my oldest kids, Michaela and Seth. Then, a week from now will mark the 9th anniversary of the day that Seth left this earth at the age of 27th. A few days later, on the 16th, will mark the 10th anniversary of the day that Lucas, the son of my dear soul sister Ava, left this earth. Every year in the last 8 years, that I turn the calendar to April, I take a deep gulp. My perspective has changed so much from that first year that I approached this combination of events. These past few days as I considered how and why that is so, these words came to mind: 

Sometimes, when you're in a dark place, you think you've been buried, but you've actually been planted...

I thought about this as I began to see my bulbs and annuals sprouting up from the cold, wet soil. How anxious I am every year to see their little green leaves. How much I am hopeful that each one will produce at least one beautiful bloom that can be enjoyed,

even if only for a few days. I buried them hoping for a good outcome, believing in a good result. But there is a considerable amount of faith involved in that process, even for the most accomplished gardener. Particularly here in the Midwest. 

I find myself tempted to 'help' them along by pushing away some of the dirt or removing some of the mulch.

I've learned that it is the very worst thing I can do. You see here in the Midwest, you never can be quite sure of the weather. Just when you think it's going to remain warm and sunny and you are past the Winter, it will snow. And there you have it: Wilted plants.

How much like this are the seasons of darkness and growth in our lives and the lives of those around us?

As I have walked through my valley of the shadow of death the past 9 years, there are many times I've wished some magical force would reach in and dig me out. There have even been times when I felt strong enough to push my way through, denying that it might not be the right time to emerge and take on something or someone, and I found I was very wrong. While I have survived, and even thrived, it has only been by the loving kindness of those around me who nursed me back to health. 

And each time, I learned a little bit more about being patient in the valley and accepting some darkness.

This means sometimes pushing away hands that want to grab me up

and tell me it's time to 'move on' and 'be strong.' It means retreating from some that were just too focused on their chaos to see I needed solace and time. But what it has taught me most of all is this:

I am not in charge of anyone's journey through darkness. 

Only my own.

I can now look at the other bulbs and seedlings around me and realize that forcefully digging past their covering will not do anything to promote their growth. I can nurture them through encouraging words. I can fertilize them with love and genuine compassion. I can water them with laughter and moments of joy. But they alone must push through the earth and come into their fuller season of growth. They must find their blossom. Just as I have. 

Life can be beautiful, even in the most trying of seasons.

So tonight, I will join my soul sister Ava at a celebration of the life of a dear friend of ours, Beth. A woman who walked through the valley of death and came out whole on the other side. Ava and I will toast to another year of friendship together, brought to us by two young men who are never far from our thoughts. We'll keep growing through it, together and alone. Here's to finding the patience to let the darkness do what is needed, and the strength to burst through at just the right time. Cheers, Friends!