Waiting for the Season (Number 29 in a series)

“To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:” Ecclesiastes 3:1 (KJV)


Spring in the foothills is a glorious season. The “sticks” in the vineyards along the roads are garlanded in young leaves of rich green. The orchards have bloomed and immature fruit is beginning the process of filling out into apples and pears and other succulent delights.

The garden we’ve started in the backyard is filling in with leaves of green beans and spreading tomato plants. The lettuce is nearly mature and the peas are climbing their trellises is a riotous glory. Squash bushes are beginning to sprawl across their hills. The carrots are trying my patience – I know they are slow to sprout but I look forward to their emerald feathers gracing the garden bed.

I am accustomed to working full-time, to traveling from site to site to provide training. When I wasn’t training people, I was testing programs or helping to develop new classes and class materials. Always busy, always moving. Now my pace is much slower – I’m waiting. Waiting for Mama’s next medical appointment; waiting for a job; waiting for the carrots to appear.

This is a season of slowing down, of planting for the future harvest. Much as I want to hurry things along, I know God’s time is perfect. Some days I easily can praise Him for the opportunity to spend time with my mother and my sister’s family, and to experience the beauty of the Sierra Nevada foothills.

Other days it takes as act of will to praise Him as I grow impatient with the waiting. I want to see His purpose and I want to see it now! It's hard remember to wait and pray for God's good time.

Will I be a string bean, shooting up quickly? Or a carrot, slower to appear but sweeter to the taste? Both are valuable for our nourishment. What would you have me be, Lord?

Father, we thank You for the rich variety of Your creation and the knowledge that everything (including us!) has a purpose there. Help me to see Your purpose and to grow accordingly. And please be patient with me when I want to hurry.

© 2009 Mary Beth Magee