After The Harvest (When Words Are Few)

Last updated on: January 29, 2015 at 3:00 pm by Kaitlin B. Curtice

After The Harvest (When Words Are Few) 2015-01-29T15:00:00-04:00 Kaitlin B. Curtice

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*“*Come, ye thankful people, come

Raise the song of harvest home

All is safely gathered in

Ere the winter storms begin…” -Henry Alford

We’ve been here six months. Half a year is gone, and we’ve spent it under the Georgia sunlight.

When fall came, she was welcomed in, as she always is in our home. The holidays brought forth blessings, and we rested, thankful.

Now, it’s almost February, and it’s barely felt like winter. But still, we’re in the dead of it, and we already long for the bursting life of spring, for potted plants on our balcony and homegrown herbs in our kitchen.

We’ve been safely gathered in, awaiting the cold and storms.

What we didn’t understand is that the storms may have started to bustle about in our very hearts, beating us into lifelessness and chill.

Parenting is very hard work, even in the blessing of friends and community who reach forward to help.

And getting a PhD is unspeakably hard work, and the kind that never ends, never pauses to let you catch some shallow breaths. It’s sleepless and brain-stretching, with an abundance of humility poured over everything at once.

So we’re gathered in here, safe, but we’re emptied out and exhausted, and we long for moments of solitude to come find us when we’re too tired to look for them.

We discussed it this morning, me all teary-eyed at the sink, afraid to remind Trav how hard it is with the boys, afraid he’ll think I’m discounting his work.

But it’s none of that.

We see each other, and we struggle on together.

We choose joy and we look our boys in the eyes.

But we’re still in the struggle.

And at this time last year, I said, “We’ll look back at this and remember,” and so it is the truth again, and I’ll see it all clearer one day, when I’m sitting on the couch drinking my coffee, a different season of life whirling about me.

Our adventure is still here, and I embrace it.

And I light more candles and we turn up the music, and I find Jesus in the boys’ B-I-N-G-O Pandora station.

I remain weak, hoping that daily transformation brings strength to my weariness,

and more joy to the daily struggle of seeking life in everything.

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