Spring, Eternity, Beauty

What gain has the worker from his toil? I have seen the business that God has given to the children of man to be busy with. He has made everything beautiful in its time. Also, he has put eternity into man’s heart, yet so that he cannot find out what God has done from the beginning to the end. — Ecclesiastes 3:9-11

There are days and weeks where I can’t seem to tell the end from the beginning. Springtime is one of those times where all of a sudden time seems to start again. I remember winter, I have plenty of wonderful memories from this winter, and yet the sun comes out, the air smells fresh and my mood elevates by several points.

There are weeks when work feels like work. And working on never-ending word documents, and tracing the same edit across multiple iterations of insanely long word documents certainly feels like work. But Spring comes like a breath of fresh air, bringing beauty just in time.

I’ve been gardening recently. Now when I say gardening I wish I meant what you thought. I don’t know what sort of garden you imagined, but I wish it was what I had in mind. I rent a home. So all of the gardening I will be doing this year will be in containers on my porch and in my house. But I am thrilled.

I’ve been documenting my gardening journey on Twitter in one big thread. I hope that by the middle of summer the thread will be capped off with pictures of fresh cherry tomatoes and bell peppers.


But I don’t know what’s going to come in time. I don’t know what the next season holds, and I’m only just discovering what this one holds. Yet just as I truly believe that “he has made everything beautiful in its time”, I also believe that in some weird way eternity is in our same hearts that are bound up into the flow of time.

When I look at the fresh new seedlings and catch the first scent of bruised tomato leaves. I experience something beautiful and for one fleeting moment sense eternity.

Other things to read

  • Evergreen
    🌲 A poem by D.S. Chapman
  • To the Green Rock
    A Poem by D.S. Chapman
  • Hurricane Ridge
    A poem by D.S. Chapman


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