fading in fall

August is always amazing and difficult for me.
It's the climax of summer's shortening breath, it's the fading of bright light days into wisps of fall.

It's the hallmark of big days; it's my favorite things:
Birthday.  Anniversary.   The Summit.   State Fair. Weekends away. Garden harvesting.

It's burning hot and chilly cool.
It's unpredictable.
It's steady, steamy days.
It's expectation.

I guess because my world revolves around the anticipation of September, August fills me with so much anxiety.  I hold my breath in August and don't release it until the month passes away.

From the tender age of five until this, my fortieth year, I expect a lot of September.  And I use all my energy in August to build that pressure.
That wonder and hope and dream of September.
August signaled getting ready, ready to fade into fall.

New pencils.
Sharpened and smooth.
Erasers plump and full.
Colored pencils brilliant and new.

And crayons, and markers, and folders and notebooks.  Lined up, arranged, selected and stationed in a backpack ready to go.

New clothes. Folded by color, pressed, and prepared. New image.
New classes, new friends, new teachers, new relationships.

And feelings and emotions, expressions and attitudes lined up, arranged, selected and stationed in a heart ready to go.

Elementary school days and middle school days and high school days and college days and now, so many years of Sunday school days.
New ministry years.
New goals.
New, new, new.

Accomplish, exceed, conquer, preform.

I'm going to jump, again.  Leap into the predictably unpredictable free fall of leading volunteers. Of hopes matched with reality.  Of dreams meeting practicality.  Of struggles colliding with miracles.

As I stand on the doorstep of September, I am whimsically sober and  oh-so-hopeful.

Oh God, come; and Be.
And may I be still and see.