There are days when discontent creeps in, like a skulking fog, begging me to want more, to cry over spilled milk, to pout like a spoiled child over my current position. And on those days, in the thick, gray dampness, time seems to stand still. It's not (as it has been before) an obliterating depression, and it's not a sensation of acute misery. It is, instead, a steady, persistent wish for another time in my life. A time that has not yet happened.
And the blatant frivolity and thanklessness of my desires accosts me. Here I am, granted but one life with which to serve, one life with which to glorify my Father, and I, instead of pursuing with passion the time in which I live, look forward (and occasionally backward) to another point in time.
Today is beautiful. Today is glorious. Today is the day "that the Lord has made" (despite the cliche that children's songs have made that statement). And today I am thankful... thankful for a couch and a shoulder, thankful for a hug from my mother, thankful for a hot breakfast, thankful for rest, thankful...
And by being thankful, I have become oh-so very content...
That being said, Emily Dickinson and I are pretty much on the same page... **grin**
IF you were coming in the fall,
I ’d brush the summer by
With half a smile and half a spurn,
As housewives do a fly.
If I could see you in a year,
I ’d wind the months in balls,
And put them each in separate drawers,
Until their time befalls.
If only centuries delayed,
I ’d count them on my hand,
Subtracting till my fingers dropped
Into Van Diemen’s land.
If certain, when this life was out,
That yours and mine should be,
I ’d toss it yonder like a rind,
And taste eternity.
But now, all ignorant of the length
Of time’s uncertain wing,
It goads me, like the goblin bee,
That will not state its sting.
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