The New and the Garden
I've been in a different season these past weeks. It's been an altogether bittersweet one, honestly, with its own individual grieving process. A few weeks ago Cora started kindergarten. I always expected that the day would bring tears. My last baby officially in school full time. The end of the season I'd lived in so long.
It did bring tears, but they were not the tears I expected. They were bitter, regret-filled tears. I had had bouts of regret throughout these last three years, often torn between loving my current life and missing the one I'd left behind. I'd been consumed by guilt at times because my years while they were little hadn't played out quite like I'd anticipated, because I wasn't home with them full-time. But always before I'd managed to push the feelings aside, soak up the time I did have at home with them, and move forward. Now I mourned deeply the loss of the last three years at home. I replayed countless memories of the days I'd spent at home with the kids before we moved back to Fort Wayne. I idealized them in many ways, but they were such sweet, full days. I was completely paralyzed by regret and grief for weeks. I felt like I had failed in every place that was most important.
Then finally one day, completely unexpectedly (and somewhat out of context), I heard the words I desperately needed: If any man is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has gone; the new has come.
This is a new season. There is no way to undo what has gone before (and no need to, really). There is no reason to live in the past, to drag it up daily and mourn. This is a new day, a new season. It comes with new mercies. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I couldn't see it when I was knee-deep in my grief and guilt. I couldn't see--or see fully, at least-- that this is a good season. I couldn't embrace my days now because I was clinging to the days that had already passed. I couldn't see how wonderful my children are now, how fully engaged with me they are, because I was consumed with my loss of the days when they were engaging with me in a different way. I was clutching the old when a new, more wonderful creation was already taking root in front of me. I was missing life!
My failure in this past season was epitomized to me in my gardens. Our yard is beautifully landscaped, and I know that the previous owner of our home kept them in wonderful condition. But with my full-time work schedule, three children, and the host of other things that fill my days in this season, I have not kept up with the yard work. Every last bed was overgrown and dying. It represented every part of my role as a wife and mother in which I felt I had let my family down. I actually began to avoid the backyard, because it only intensified my guilt!
But being in a new season means facing this season and its realities head-on. I can't be home full-time. I can't make the kids' clothes, or spend hours on crafts, or maintain abundant, lush gardens. It's just not written into this chapter of my life. Some seasons require us to let go, to release some of what we hold in our hands so that we can open our hands to something else. In this season, it meant letting go of the gardens.
My dad came over on Saturday and we began our work: we removed old, dead trees. We transplanted low-maintenance plants to our front garden beds--plants that will be easy to care for and beautify our home without taking more of my time. We dug up and gave away many of the plants in the back beds. And then we emptied and raked all but two sections of garden in the backyard. All the old beds will be seeded for grass. It means more play space for the kids, anyway. And it means I will be able to keep up with the yard work, to do it justice.
It was nothing more than a day in the gardens, the moving of some plants, the planting of some grass seed. In the grand scheme of things, it didn't mean anything. But for me, it meant the end of a long and bitter battle with myself. It meant that I was embracing this season--whether it was what I anticipated for myself or not. It meant that I was being honest about it, making the changes necessary, and opening my arms wide to receive whatever this season has to offer. The old has gone, the new has come. The beds that frame my front door will be the symbols of my heart change. I can't think of any better visual reminder than gardens that are stripped of the old and dressed for the new.
It did bring tears, but they were not the tears I expected. They were bitter, regret-filled tears. I had had bouts of regret throughout these last three years, often torn between loving my current life and missing the one I'd left behind. I'd been consumed by guilt at times because my years while they were little hadn't played out quite like I'd anticipated, because I wasn't home with them full-time. But always before I'd managed to push the feelings aside, soak up the time I did have at home with them, and move forward. Now I mourned deeply the loss of the last three years at home. I replayed countless memories of the days I'd spent at home with the kids before we moved back to Fort Wayne. I idealized them in many ways, but they were such sweet, full days. I was completely paralyzed by regret and grief for weeks. I felt like I had failed in every place that was most important.
Then finally one day, completely unexpectedly (and somewhat out of context), I heard the words I desperately needed: If any man is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has gone; the new has come.
This is a new season. There is no way to undo what has gone before (and no need to, really). There is no reason to live in the past, to drag it up daily and mourn. This is a new day, a new season. It comes with new mercies. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it?
I couldn't see it when I was knee-deep in my grief and guilt. I couldn't see--or see fully, at least-- that this is a good season. I couldn't embrace my days now because I was clinging to the days that had already passed. I couldn't see how wonderful my children are now, how fully engaged with me they are, because I was consumed with my loss of the days when they were engaging with me in a different way. I was clutching the old when a new, more wonderful creation was already taking root in front of me. I was missing life!
My failure in this past season was epitomized to me in my gardens. Our yard is beautifully landscaped, and I know that the previous owner of our home kept them in wonderful condition. But with my full-time work schedule, three children, and the host of other things that fill my days in this season, I have not kept up with the yard work. Every last bed was overgrown and dying. It represented every part of my role as a wife and mother in which I felt I had let my family down. I actually began to avoid the backyard, because it only intensified my guilt!
But being in a new season means facing this season and its realities head-on. I can't be home full-time. I can't make the kids' clothes, or spend hours on crafts, or maintain abundant, lush gardens. It's just not written into this chapter of my life. Some seasons require us to let go, to release some of what we hold in our hands so that we can open our hands to something else. In this season, it meant letting go of the gardens.
My dad came over on Saturday and we began our work: we removed old, dead trees. We transplanted low-maintenance plants to our front garden beds--plants that will be easy to care for and beautify our home without taking more of my time. We dug up and gave away many of the plants in the back beds. And then we emptied and raked all but two sections of garden in the backyard. All the old beds will be seeded for grass. It means more play space for the kids, anyway. And it means I will be able to keep up with the yard work, to do it justice.
It was nothing more than a day in the gardens, the moving of some plants, the planting of some grass seed. In the grand scheme of things, it didn't mean anything. But for me, it meant the end of a long and bitter battle with myself. It meant that I was embracing this season--whether it was what I anticipated for myself or not. It meant that I was being honest about it, making the changes necessary, and opening my arms wide to receive whatever this season has to offer. The old has gone, the new has come. The beds that frame my front door will be the symbols of my heart change. I can't think of any better visual reminder than gardens that are stripped of the old and dressed for the new.
