TIME FOR A CHANGE

"Nothing gold can stay," the poet says. It sounds depressing, but I don't believe that was his intention. Rather, this is a poetic way of stating a fact of life: it's all about seasons and change.

This poem has come to life for me in recent days, as harvest begins on the prairies. Fields covered with golden canola blossoms just weeks ago now stand in tones of burnt blonde, or lie swathed and waiting for pickup.

Beaches which were well-frequented and highly populated all summer, now looking more solitary in the evenings.

As if on cue, my mind and body recognize a new season and begin to change. Muscles, tense from a season of sitting at a desk, begin to relax with time in the lake/pool, bicycle rides and yoga ball stretches.

I have time to devote to memories and goals. Some of this is healing, while some of it just leaves the heart feeling raw. Similar to the harvested crop, I'm mostly ready to put the good parts to use and prep for a new season and a different product.

It's not awful, this fading of gold. I love the cooler mornings, the comfort of owning my skin, and the view in the rear-view mirror. The hiĺls and valleys made me stronger, the lonely stretches forced me to know myself better, and the seasons of color marked me with laugh lines and happy tears. The horizon is full of unknowns, but I'm thankful for that, too. I would spend too much energy dreading the hard days.

Golden canola blossoms turn into food products. Golden tansy flowers become a salve that soothes my aching feet. Gold coins turn into beverages shared with friends. Golden sunbeams turn into moonlight, cuddles and dreams.

Nothing gold can stay,
But when it fades away:
Oh the joy change brings
To those who choose to sing!

A DECADE OF DECISIONS

Today marks 12 years since my baby girl was taken from me. Twelve years of tears and tough decisions - of healing and hoping and praying and pressing pause.

The emotions of that night have never left me. I remember the shock, the fear - and the sting when I stopped at the church campgeound for prayers and comfort. I remember the buried needle on the dashboard, my mother-in-law wringing her hands, and the sound of my husband's voice. And I cry anew.

I remember little of the days that followed, yet all the rawness is fresh. Like a smoky sky, the haze of depression hung low and heavy. I remember the tears of her siblings, the feeling of helplesness, the inability to sleep, and the waves of nausea.

This memory surfaces even as I mourn a friend's failed adoption this week. This was the one - the first time in 12 years I was able to see the beauty in adoption again. This was the adoption restoring my hope that Heaven has a Master plan, and all things are redeemed.

I received very personal promises from God in prayer for this adoption. And while I have a head knowledge that His Word is sure, my shattered heart again begs the question: Why, God?! And what about Your promises?

If there is anything I have learned in the last 12 years, it is that God is close to the broken-hearted. You can't ask questions of someone if you're not speaking to them. So the more questions I have, the more time I spend talking to God. While it may not change the situation, prayer always changes me.

So I bring all my broken pieces, all my shattered hopes, and all my regrets to the Master. He is the weaver; I'm just a dreamer. And I dream of the day where mothers hold babies close to their hearts while being held close to the Heavenly Father.

I continue to live in hope.  And if you're reading this, my singing cuckoo bird, I pray that you are hearing His whispers of hope, sensing His healing hands, and know you are loved.