Poem: When It Is Time

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When It is Time

The sun has almost broken through the morning fog.
Beneath it, the hayfield, freshly cut
and laid out in straight lines,
damp with dew, waiting for the heat of the morning
to dry each strand of fresh cut silage,
to make it ready for baling.

It is not yet useful, this hay,
but it is close,
just a bit more time,
determined more by weather
than hard work or hopes.
Will it rain? Will the sun shine?

It is not a matter of deserving
or scripts. That part is done.
What is left is the waiting,
the opportunity to finish the work
when it is time,
and no sooner.

About this poem

We spend too much time worrying about deserving. It has been beaten into us since childhood that we deserve or do not deserve certain things. Love. God’s favor. Kindness. The list is long.

And so we work. We strive. We live in this place of stress, always worrying about whether we deserve good things.

We do. Period. Just by virtue or being children of God, we deserve good things. Work is fine. Good even. Good for us to strive, but the pressure of worrying about whether we deserve is as senseless as wondering if the dew covered hay deserves to dry.

Work. Wait. Have faith. Things mostly work out. Worry is wasted energy.

That is what I believe.

Be well. Travel wisely,


PS – The picture was taken in Pawlet, Vermont.

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