I use to love the month of May.
I loved the promise of near-perfect temperatures--irises and daisies popping up from the ground, standing at attention or swaying with ease in the breeze. That changed in 2005. Now, it's a love~hate relationship I have with May. When I get past Mother's Day, the days which follow are filled with horrific memories of battles I endured for months upon months. I could never publicize or begin to share the events, situations and circumstances with you here.
Depression settles in about this time and I have to constantly be looking to the Lord (not that I don't already), for strength to get me through till August--my son's birthday. Then more "bad" memories sow seeds of heartache in my mind. I do my level best to root them out and transplant others--better, more positive ones. But it's not easy, folks. It really isn't. I dwell on every single solitary thing of purity, goodness and love...but there's some crack inside my brain or some vulnerable emotion that allows satan entrance.
It's been two years. Will it be this way a year from now? For some reason as May approaches this year I find myself wanting to run away...far away...to some place I've never been where there is nothing to remind me of things I've already experienced. Wonder where that place could be. I've never been to England, Iceland or for that matter, Savannah, Georgia. I don't really think it would matter much if I ran away; memories have a way of following me around.
I truly wish I could bring every thought into the captivity of Christ. I wish He could magically put all good things inside my head and crowd out all the bad. Kinda like growing so much grass seed that it wipes out crabgrass, ya know? Am I the only Christian who struggles with this problem?
I wish I could jerk those thoughts from my mind as easily as I do the thistles in my back yard. I wish. Unfortunately, every time I dug those prickly-leafed weeds from my lawn, another sprouts somewhere else. My feathered friends carry those seeds everywhere. The wind moves them from field to field--neighbor to neighbor. In some states it's against the law for them to grow into seed-bearing heights. They grow upwards of 4 and 5 feet if not mowed down, dug up or poisoned. And in their gangly maturity, they give ugly a new meaning. Except.
Except for the puff of glorious purple that pokes its lovely head from the cradle of spiny leaves. It's blossom is gorgeous and is so soft to touch. So unlike the thorny stem and jagged leaves which hold it tightly in its grasp. Even thistles have their kinder, gentler, softer side. And though they cause great aggravation and distress, they also provide a sweetness that belies their character--nectar for busy bees to gather and exchange for honey.
Perhaps that's the reason for the harsh memories that invade the garden of my mind. In each is a bit of nectar to be transformed into honey once the gathering is over. I hope so anyway.
[copyrighted, SelahV Today, 2007]
