Ah, the glory of June…. I sit here by my open window, a glass of sparkling pink grape-fruit juice catching and holding the light of the sun beside me. The breeze is soft, so soft and gentle; the sky is blue, so blue my mind is stopped by the blueness when I gaze at it; my world is no less green than the world above me is blue.
This is June…
I once wrote a poem that said I was not made for June. One June I felt that June mocked me with its glory. “When is November here?” I wondered. November seemed my month. The month of gray and goodbyes and death. This blueness and greenness and sunshine and singing were foreign. I huddled inside my heart, numb.
Perhaps I underestimated the power of God. Bruised reeds He does not break, faith like a mustard seed He causes to grow, mourning He turns to dancing. Perhaps girls of November can be turned to daughters of June. Daughters of God, daughters of joy, daughters of summer…
June is here. The earth keeps turning and seasons come and go like the turning of a calendar page. It isn’t true that you were made for November. November is but a season of life, friend. One day, one day, you will find your smile again. Believe it. June comes creeping through the coldness and touches you gently, so gently, that you cannot turn away. It sits beside you where you freeze, and slowly the ice melts from the edges of your heart. You sit in the dark, but suddenly you realize you are not alone, but surrounded by dozens of tiny lamps of God, blinking in a summer night.
The birds sing a song of grace and sunshine outside my window, but once they shivered and sat on snowy branches, sans song, feathers fluffed against the cold. The tree is vibrant green, but I saw that same tree bare but a few short months ago, waiting for the sun to draw closer. The flowers glow in their garments—clothed by God like the lilies of the field, which yesterday were not, and tomorrow will wilt. Still they dare to bloom—how much more should we who will never die?
It isn’t true you were made for November. June is here, and if you aren’t feeling it yet, friend, and the world mocks you with its summer joy—just wait and take it as a promise. He promised, “…to you who fear My name the Sun of Righteousness shall arise with healing in His wings…”
There is more day to dawn. The sun is but a morning star. ~Henry Thoreau