The signs of spring are welcome. The dead fall leaves from the live-oaks remind us past-Northerners of fall. New leaves, spring green hues that only God can paint, take their place as they fluff out beauty. The birds are singing their nesting sounds, and the box stores and Publix feature hyacinths, daffodils, lilies, and tulips. Of course, they’ve been grown in artificial lightsed warehouses, but it’s clear they know people will scoff them up in the hopes that real spring will follow.
Of course, in Florida, these plants do not naturally thrive. So instead, they evoke memories of watching thawed earth allow crocus, violets, wildflowers, and pussy willows to appear through remaining snow. Memories memorialize these anticipatory signs of season change. In Florida, it’s pretty much green all the time. Seasonal change is hard to determine here.
So, yesterday I changed the paintings on my boring-beige walls in our senior housing apartment. I pulled out forsythia blooms, artificial, of course, plunked theminto the shiny glass pitchers that brought out the colors in the paintings, and said to myself, “It’s Spring.” I wrote a short story for an upcoming writing contents, all about a northern spring garden and how much I miss gardening, and reminisced about my beautiful gardens. I admit, in my memories, I don’t remember the hard tasks of raking, cleaning up winter debris, the back-breaking raking an flowerbed preparation, and the aching knees as I planted seedling. Usually, the promises of summer growth and blooms I could pick for Bless You Bouquets was enough motivation for me to do the due diligence and hard work required.
I can’t physically do it any more. At our facility, there are bushes that get trimmed, usually, for some reason, at 7L:30 in the morning once a week. There are few flowers. The mulch is sprayed by diligent landscapers so no weeds, and surely no flowers will beautify the brown expanses. Instead of birds, the only wildlife I see are little lizards an an occasional garter snake or black racer. And pesky moles and armadillos are quickly dispatched. We can’t feed the birds because squirrels destroy the screens on our 6 x 9 patios, and the only flowers surround the “come live here” sign at the entrance to the property.
So be it.
But in the scriptures I read about seedtime to harvest. I rely on the peace offered beside still waters in green pastures in Psalm 23. And approaching Easter reminds me of eternal spring.
Then I turned to today’s “My Psalm” and it told me what I needed to write today. Here, then, is “Promises.”
MY PSALM 314 PROMISE
Almighty God, Creator of the Universe,
Yet My Heavenly Father,
I praise Your Holy and Mighty Name
In thanksgiving for Your promises.
I thank You that You covenanted to be my God
And to provide for my salvation in Your Son, Jesus.
I thank You that You desire a relationship with me,
Even this sinful child
And that You promise to be My Heavenly Father
Both here and in eternity.
I praise You, Lord.
I thank You for providing seedtime and harvest,
Day and night, seasons and cycles of Your Providence.
I thank You for providing sunshine and rain,
And guidance about how to live my life to Your honor.
I thank You for loving relationships,
For knowing good and bad. and having free will to choose.
I thank You for the beauty of Your creation,
For sparkling water and tall mountains,
For trees and flowers in colors of beauty,
For animals and fish and birds of the air,
And all things that remind us of Your Power and creativity.
I thank You for hope, that You promise us all good things.
I thank You for Your grace and mercy. Amen.
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