March is such an unpredictable month... my sun loving heart is much against the impetuous March; the deceiver March—a teaser who seeks to keep you under its spell by promising flowers and sunshine and warmth and balmy breezes too soon. March lets you believe that the long winter days are over. But then, its wheels turn; unexpectedly and harsh, and you wake up to frost clumps growing on my eyelashes and eyebrows; breath billowing white again... and it is frozen creeks again, and freezing cold river waters, and the garden a sea of mist, poked by the tips of trees and bushes turned archipelagos of fog.
But the worse of it all it is always the wind; freezing howling winds—the holy language of March. The March winds: As much as I try, my soul would not befriend them.
This evening, from further down the garden as dark approached, all that could be seen was the tall roofs of the neighboring houses, and above and beyond the insipid night fog. There are times when March reminds me of my own life—the faith's wheel hesitate, it gets stuck in a rut in the road, the eager early blooming flowers of all that is good and edifying to the soul are surprised by late frosts. I can only see ice-edged daffodils hanging their heads in sheepish dismay. The bursts of my energy for work and inspirations get blocked too in the juddering teasing mood of March, and wilted like frost-bitten petals, bloomed-too-soon.
I think of the fake March and think of those who delight themselves in putting on appearances up an appearance of love for their own conveniences, or gain.
also of the truthfulness of Jesus. I am in awe, and my heart rests in knowing that . Thank you, Jesus, for not putting up with an appearance of love. You are the real thing, you are the Defender of your children.