What started out as a fall project has turned into a winter long continuation of art and mess and incompletion. I’ve been painting, which is a big reason why I haven’t been writing. I keep thinking I’m coming to the end, and then, there’s always something else to do. People need to eat. There’s another room to clean. And maybe this is good thing, actually, of course it is. The world keeps on spinning, no matter what season it’s facing. Our good work is a gift from God, and it’s a grace that it never runs out in this life.
This has simultaneously been an act of faith and an act of rebellion. Some woman dye their hair purple. Others, like me, paint their walls every color of the rainbow I can find a way to work in. It’s my way of dealing with all the brown in the world, which by the way, will hopefully be the color of the school room hallway when I paint over the red I didn’t end up liking. It’s my way of saying, okay, fine, you’re gonna turn all brown out there? Then I’m just gonna head on over to Sherwin Williams for some Aristocrat Peach now.
Actually, it’s so much more than that, so much simpler. I’m too old and tired for rebellion. I feel at home here and I want to make it feel like home. I cried with so much joy and happiness and satisfaction after finishing my son’s room for his birthday, the son whose birthday I basically forgot last year. I found him a headboard with a book shelf for his bed that had always sat alone on the floor. There’s redemption happening all around us in this life. The barrenness of soul is being restored to faith and fruitfulness again.
Lent is here, and I’ve said this before, but spring is not my season. Some people get depressed in the winter, but I don’t get depressed til the spring. I mean, I’m always sort of a little bit depressed. But Lent just seems to make everything worse. I can’t remember if it’s always been this way, or if it only started after having to grow up. With my first pregnancy I was sick all spring long. And when the others were born, I was recovering through the spring. If fall is summer’s grand finale, then spring is winter just beginning,
the lengthening days of hope deferred.