On Crunched Grass and Puddle-Jumping

When I was younger, my mother told me (as all mothers do) that the older I got, the faster time would fly. I, of course, in seven-year-old ignorance, disregarded it with the assumption that ten minutes would always be ten minutes and an hour would always be an hour.

And now, in my fifteen-year-old ignorance, I ask nobody in particular where all my time went. Why don't I have time to just lie on the couch and listen to music anymore? Since when did I become so inundated with school and work and random things that I don't need to do but do anyway?

This summer passed before I really realized it was here. I barely noticed the heat-crunched grass, because I was too busy reading to walk barefoot in the field. I missed the yearly swallow-nesting on the porch, all because I'd rather spend my free moments typing up an essay than watch the sunrise from the steps. I went outside yesterday and the field-grass was wet and soft beneath my feet, something that wasn't supposed to come for another couple of months, or so I thought.

So in a sudden realization that this wouldn't last forever, I danced in the rain.

I was jumping, leaping, laughing, singing and slipping through the mini-lakes and puddles, with blackberry briars sticking in my feet and shivers running down my soaked spine. I rejoiced in the beautiful, cold, sharp rain that made my hair go curly as I shook out the drops.

I found joy yesterday. Pure, unadulterated, un-adulted joy. I could honestly bless my Creator with dance and song as I sloshed through mud and fogged my glasses with heavy breath.

Yes, I missed the summer, to my great regret. But today I'm resolving to live in the autumn, and rejoice in it as God calls me to do.

(There also you and your households shall eat before the LORD your God, and rejoice in all your undertakings in which the LORD your God has blessed you.) Deuteronomy 12:7