Years ago I heard a preacher on the radio speak of, “… the season of dry bones” using Ezekiel 37 as a reference where that prophet was shown a valley of dry bones. I don’t remember what the sermon was about, but the phrase, “season of dry bones” stuck with me. It sounds ominous and dark. January and February are my season of dry bones.

The holidays are over; the weather is cold and dark. The intense energy of the fall that caused us to put so much into end-of-the-year festivities of sharing, giving, singing and celebrating of a new beginning has waned. It is a tired time. Winter is upon us, the trees are bare, there is no growth and life is taking a dreary sigh. It is the season of dry bones.

We all love the time off in November and December, but January is time to get back to work. It is hard to get going again. Work seems oppressive as we are burdened, or burden ourselves, with end-of-year figures. First quarter projections are hung over us like swords of Damocles. The message is clear, “You’ve had your fun, now put your noses to that grindstone and keep them there.” It is time to work, to get things moving again. It is the season of dry bones.

All the festive decorations are gone and our homes, schools and offices look as bare as the trees and as dreary as the weather. Winter is on us and we are in survival mode. Everything is stripped, reduced to bare bones … bare, dry, bones. It is the season of dry bones.

Football is almost over, and having never been much of a basketball fan, there is emptiness in my life. The sports page and sports channels hold little interest for me. Sports such as NASCAR, golf and tennis are in hiatus, leaving us a season of dry bones. What to do?

We hope. We all cling to some vision of the future, even if it is only weeks away. This is a season of looking forward. For me, pitchers and catchers report for baseball spring training the end of February. They are my personal robins. When they arrive, new grass on the field is not far behind and all will be right with the world, or at least heading in the right direction.

The beginning of the baseball season for me has always been a signal, a promise that better things are on the horizon. It is a gentler, more refined game than football, and fits the seasons of spring and summer. It gets intense in the fall when the playoffs and World Series happen, but fall is intense, then winter and we do the whole thing over again.

As bleak as the season of dry bones seems, it holds promise. Just as the sun sets, we know it will rise again and so will the days grow longer and brighter and so will our attitudes. My baseball glove rests on my dresser. I put it on and cup my face in it as I have done since I was eight years old. The smell is the promise of spring. The ball feels good in my hands. I’m going outside and toss it awhile. Maybe the season isn’t so dry after all.

David Wilson Atwood is a local writer whose human-interest columns offer a unique perspective. He may be contacted, and his other works viewed, at www.starchasers.us, or david@starchasers.us.