I was outside this morning, watering and checking on my garden beds and flowers, and waxing poetic about all things spring . . . pictures for emphasis and also because bluebonnets in Texas. Need I say more?
Seeds sprouting, plants growing, flowers blooming . . . there’s something about it that just breathes fresh life into your very being. Like I said, “waxing poetic”. And if you ask me my favorite season, I’ll struggle to answer. I have a hard time picking favorites for anything, not just seasons, because I think everything truly is “beautiful in its time” (Ecclesiastes 3:11). But y’all spring is some kind of special. The way new life comes from death. The growth and life and the vibrancy that follow the darkness and drudgery of winter. Everything about spring points us back to the resurrection of our Savior and speaks to the beauty of His redemptive love.
Then, I got the mail . . . and there in all their glory were our tax documents . . . not really, there’s no glory to be had taxes. You know that screeching halt sound from movies and cartoons? That was 100% my brain as opened that stupid, 9 x 12, envelope. Talk about killing the poeticism in my life. There is nothing, not a blessed thing, poetic about taxes. (Ask me how I feel about taxes . . . I’ll tell you.)
So that’s where I find myself on this fine, and it truly is a fine, spring day. The glory of new life AND taxes (womp . . . womp). I’m sure there’s a lesson here. To everything there is a season (also, Ecclesiastes 3)? Or maybe it’s just, this is what they mean when they (whoever “they” is) talk about adulting? Because let’s be real. Sometimes being an adult is just not all you think it’s going to be when you’re 15, but also no one can tell you what time to go to bed or not to eat ice cream out of the carton. So there’s that. Anyhow, I’ll let y’all know if I learn anything from this. But for today, I’m shoving the taxes in the rolltop, and soaking in all the spring I can. And I am pretty sure there is, most definitely, a lesson in that.
Courtney's Contemplations . . . 