Growth Unexpected: When Brown Hills Turn Green

It’s winter. Well, technically, it’s still fall. But nobody associates December with colorful leaves and pumpkin-spice everything. Certainly not growth.

December means snow. December is bleak; the days are short and the nights are long. The trees are bare and the bears are sleeping.

December is winter.

Except when it’s really not.

When I first re-returned to California in October, this was the barren, browntastic view from my new living situation:

Growth Before: Brown Hills

Over two months later, amid the last week leading up to Christmas, this is my updated view of those same brown hills:

Growth After: Green Hills

It’s hard to tell from the .000003 pixelation of my snazzy phone-camera, but yes, that is indeed grass growing on those formerly dusty hills. Vibrant, green grass suddenly sprouting in abundance after weeks of southern California’s annual end-of-year rains.

It’s winter for everyone else in this country, but it’s basically springtime here. I ran down a trail the other day and saw numerous trees spotted with bright yellow lemons. Been running down this same trail for over two months now, and didn’t see that literally fruitful sight in October.

Last week I broke the silence and spilled the beans on my recent lack of inspiration. My apathy for writing and further apathy for life.

I committed to No Shave November like I’ve done the last couple years, but guess what? Unlike the last couple years, I actually “survived” until December.

But now it’s the middle of December, and I’m still “surviving.” Don’t really see any need to stop the stubbly hairy trend. An outward symbol of my inner barrenness.

Those distant hills didn’t transform overnight. It was a slow process, beginning with mere drops from that first unsuspecting rain of the season.

And before I even knew to expect the transformation, I walked to my car and did a double-take. Suddenly realized lavishly green hills before me. Like God had dipped His brush into some Peas in a Pod and completely changed the background of this painting.

Remember The Wizard of Oz, when everything switches from black and white to abundant color?

I don’t exactly have a rosy, Christianese tie-in to my life; I’m sure it’s there, but again, I’m kinda lacking in the inspiration department right now.

But I can simply observe what’s happening beyond my window: springtime growth when much of this country has already been buried under feet of snow.

There’s something in that. Even amid this endless inspirationless stretch, I’m pretty sure of some grandiose lesson in this pair of images.

And so I’m hopeful for unexpected growth. Even in winter.

Fall. Whatever.

5 Comments

[…] in southern California with hardly any money, no job, no nothing to my name. I was living in the mountainous boondocks, dust literally surrounding me. A chilling parallel that to dust this body will return. As my soul […]

Rebecka 19 December 2012
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This post reminded me of the song Let Hope In by Daniel Bashta. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e5SWqNShtnY) I’ve been listening to it a lot this fall/winter and praying the lyrics over my barren and uninspiring life. It still feels kind of hopeless, I still feel like “a brown hill”, but I want to thank you so much for reminding me that there is hope. One day we’ll be “green” again!

MLYaksh 17 December 2012
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I’m pretty sure I quote Gungor’s Beautiful Things in my comments a lot- but I can’t help it. The line “Can a garden spring up from this ground?” seems to fit here well. God can make things grow where nothing should. All through out the Old Testament, there are verses that speak to this. God can make rivers appear in the desert, fruitful gardens in a wasteland, and even grass on a brown hill out of season. He does things the opposite of what we expect so often- I think it’s to remind us that He is in complete control. Nothing can happen outside of His Hand- natural laws and human logic fail before Him.
And, for me personally, I do find a lot of growth happens when my lfie feels most barren. It seems that out of those barren times the most fruit comes. I don’t undestand it. But I don’t have to. You are growing, Tom. Believe it or not, it’s happening. And you’ll be able to see it soon enough.