Spring

Spring Again

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Caught a glimpse of my first red-winged blackbird this week. Birds of prey are back in town, soaring over greening landscapes. My hollyhocks and strawberries have popped up and the irises are well on their way. 

All at once, the world is alive!

Seems the spring snow has done its job, though it will likely return to nourish the earth before May is through. Spring is so changeable here! Last week snow flurries fell as the sun was shining. Good weather is never a guarantee, so even though the breeze has a hint of a chill at times, we try to drink in each drop of amazing golden sunshine while we have it.

After the soft pastel skies and brilliant white palette of winter followed by the drab grey and brown of the spring melt, I am ready for bluebird skies and every shade of green dotted with the myriad of pinks, blues and purples, reds, yellows and oranges of the annuals and perennials in the neighbourhood. Bring on the birdsong, even in the wee hours, accompanied by the babbling of the nearby creek and the rustling of leaves on the once-bare trees.

What a gift!

Every year I am amazed that what once looked lifeless is now bursting with growth. The days lengthen, with light touching places that even a few short weeks ago seemed beyond reach — our annual reminder that God is always at work fulfilling the promise of new life, streams in dry places and beauty from ashes.

The God who created these beautiful natural rhythms of life is the very same God who carries us through the most difficult moments we are currently facing. He is faithful to bring the sunrise each morning and we can trust Him to continue His work in our lives.

Recently I’ve been thinking about this passage from 2 Corinthians 4:5-12 (NIV) — 

“For what we preach is not ourselves, but Jesus Christ as Lord, and ourselves as your servants for Jesus’ sake. For God, who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,’ made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of God’s glory displayed in the face of Christ.

But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body. 

For we who are alive are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that his life may also be revealed in our mortal body. So then, death is at work in us, but life is at work in you.”

Nature reveals the glory of God, but at times our circumstances threaten to rob us of our joy. For you who feel battered by life today, hold on to the One who made His light shine in our hearts, who places treasures in jars of clay, who fills us with His power to face the day. When you wake up in the morning and that same thing is still, well, very much the same, hold fast to the truth that we are not crushed, not in despair, not abandoned, not destroyed. He is revealing His life in and through us. 

Then, step into the day with confidence knowing you are never alone. Intentionally notice the gifts of spring and let them refresh your heart as the Lord does His work. It’s all for His glory!

Thanks be to God.

Image: Stocksnap

In the Waiting

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Not done yet, I guess.

We were walloped with several centimetres of snow overnight, but the warm spring sunshine is making quick work of the melting process as tiny rivers have begun to appear along the street outside.

For some reason, it’s always a bit of a surprise when the snow comes outside the months of November, December, January or February. We have this idea that March is kinda spring and April is definitely spring, and May, well that’s practically summer, but the truth is that we will likely see snow in each of those months, whether we want to or not.

By now, though, we’re pretty tired of it. We don’t want to shovel and scrape, bundle and trudge, slip and slide our way to our destination. We want to be free of the cumbersome barriers of adding extra time to travel on slick and messy roads, cleaning up melted slush at the front door, and tripping over winter boots and jackets.

It’s getting old. 

And yet, we need it so desperately— this “poor man’s fertilizer”, this moisture that brings life to the parched ground and awakens the places that have been asleep for months. The sun sparkles on the spring runoff and blades of brown grass begin to appear as the heat of the late-day sunshine eats away at the layer of white. In just a few hours, the sun will go down and the sounds of the melt will cease, but in the meantime, we welcome two seasons in one day, thankful that spring snow doesn’t stick around for too long.

So many times we find ourselves in a place of waiting, wondering if we will ever see the warmth of spring or a season of growth in a particular area of life. We feel like we deserve a favourable turn of events, a smoothing over of difficult situations, a situation with all the ends neatly tied up — or at the very least, a hint toward it.

But all we seem to get is more spring snow, at least for now. 

Lord, as we wait upon You and look toward the hope that Easter brings, may we not waste these moments that threaten to overwhelm us. May we put our hope in the truth that You are with us no matter the season — and that You will bring new life again!

Isaiah 61:1-3 (NIV)

The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me,
    because the Lord has anointed me
    to proclaim good news to the poor.
He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
    to proclaim freedom for the captives
    and release from darkness for the prisoners,

to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor
    and the day of vengeance of our God,
to comfort all who mourn,

    and provide for those who grieve in Zion—
to bestow on them a crown of beauty
    instead of ashes,
the oil of joy
    instead of mourning,
and a garment of praise
    instead of a spirit of despair.
They will be called oaks of righteousness,
    a planting of the Lord
    for the display of his splendor.

Image: Stocksnap

All is Not Lost

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My favourite tree across the street is finally leafing out.

This one has grown up with my babies. Years ago it barely peeked over the fence. Now it reaches tall and broad, filling out the space between the others in the yard with outstretched branches. For the first time ever, it eclipses the 40 foot evergreens that tower in the distance, its leaves unfurling and glistening in the spotty spring sunlight, the same favourite leaves I know will glow brilliant gold come autumn.

“My, how you’ve grown,” I thought to myself this week. Like a cheek-pinching auntie, I marvelled from a distance at its stature. “So much bigger than last spring!”

The neighbourhood is slowly changing. It’s one of the gifts of living in the same place for many spring seasons: you begin to notice time and trends making their indelible mark.

Several mature trees have been removed in the past 12 months from the familiar little block we call home. Some may have come to the end of their life or met with disease, others removed for utility work and infrastructure upgrades, and still others were cut down for more curb appeal as the real estate market burns bright.

I am sad to see them go, although others have been planted nearby, as if to replace the ones we have lost. These will take years to grow into maturity, if they make it at all, and it will be decades before they bring the same shade, colour and beauty of their predecessors.

Trees for my grandchildren, if the Lord is gracious.

As I shake my head and return to tending my own yard, inspecting the well-established rose bushes in the front bed, wrestling out the quack grass and removing last season’s rose hips and dead leaves, I realize that I may have very well become the neighbour who greeted us somewhat begrudgingly when we first moved in years ago as the only young couple on the block.

“We need a Welcome-to-the-Neighbourhood Barbecue so we can teach you how we do things around here,” she warned. I picked up on her strong desire for things to stay the same forever, although to this day, I am still waiting for the promised lesson. 

I laugh at myself as I dig down into the dirt next to the rose bushes once again to get something, anything, to grow in the south-facing desert under my front picture windows — the place plants go to die. The perennials I chose last year weren’t hearty enough to survive, so this year it’s sunflowers and hollyhocks with their promise of big blooms, heat tolerance and nostalgia.

Every year I try something new, hoping that it will take. I haven’t given up yet! Between the repeated attempts to bring life from a barren patch in my flower bed and the beautiful growth of my favourite tree across the street, I realize that all is not lost. In spite of the unavoidable changes in my life, the promise of the next generation, deeply rooted and reaching ever higher, reminds me that there is beauty for ashes, gladness for mourning, peace for despair (Isaiah 61:3).

Jesus, help me not to become bitter with the changes life brings. There are so many places marked by circumstances beyond my control but I know You can be trusted to bring streams in the desert, to breathe new life into what seems lost. You are before all things, and in You all things hold together. (Colossians 1:17).

Image: Mine

Not So Fast

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Grey skies and gusty winds. 

Something chilly this way comes. 

We had a taste of spring last week. The sun soaked up all the snow on the front lawn and the grass peeked out. I spied the irises poking up from underneath last year’s batch and excited birdsong filled the neighbourhood. All has gone back to sleep now. A fresh dusting of grainy snow has come, with a wicked windchill to boot.

February is reminding us that winter isn’t quite finished. We need the moisture desperately so I have vowed not to complain about any of the snow from now until June, even though I’m sure a late May snowstorm isn’t anyone’s idea of great fun. Living in the shadow of the mountains, we can get snow in just about any month of the year.

This is the hard part, though. We’ve had our winter fun with skating, tobogganing, hot chocolate, puzzles, board games and movies and we’re ready to seed our veggies, watch for the first leaf bud and listen for our favourite winged migrants to fill the neighbourhood with song.

Not so fast, says late February. Time for the shoulder season. 

The freeze-melt-freeze-melt-freeze-melt cycle of late winter. Warm days mean cloud arches that block the sun’s rays and the sweet smell of fresh mud, and cold days mean cloudy skies that threaten more flakes and thin, nearly-invisible layers of ice in unexpected places. We know could be in a days-long, bone-chilling, teeth-chattering, finger-numbing polar vortex climbing the walls with cabin fever, so instead of complaining, we choose embrace this shoulder season and make the most of each day, whatever it brings — be it sun or cloud, mud or ice, or both in the same day.

It’s coming at the right time. The tension of the now and the not-yet and the longing for the warmth of spring reflects the nature of the Christian season leading up to Easter, as we prepare our hearts to celebrate the promise of new life in Jesus. We sense the change in the natural world, but it feels too slow for us. We want the warmth of April at the end of February, and it is never to be. We may catch a glimpse as the sun returns, but the journey has its own pace and it will not be rushed.

The journey has its own pace, and it will not be rushed.

 I need to hear that again and again heading into the month of March. We know that the snow will return many times before late spring, so we embrace the pace of the natural world, learning to wait patiently for warm breath to draw life from the soil and hope from our winter-weary hearts. In the meantime we persevere, praising the Lord for the pleasant days and praying for patience on the tough ones.

Even here in the shoulder season the echoes of the Incarnation are heard throughout our lives: Emmanuel, God with us. When we’re not quite where we want to be, or where we hope to be, we rest in the knowledge that we are not alone.

Spring always returns.

For this God is our God for ever and ever;
    he will be our guide even to the end.
(Psalm 48:14)

(Image: mine)

Roots

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Long have we waited.

The frozen fingers of a cold spring have finally released, and early summer heat has breathed new life into the neighbourhood.

We’ve witnessed the return of nearly all the winged migrants in the past few weeks, flying back and forth over our backyard as they build their nests and prepare for another season of fledglings. The unseasonable temperatures have coaxed the leaves from the trees and the early-blooming flowers up out of the ground to bob their heads in the warm wind.

My irises stand tall in full bloom, two weeks early. The strawberries are coming up, the Saskatoons and apples are full of blossoms and the hollyhocks I sowed last year are returning with great enthusiasm.

My life feels tied to the rhythm of the seasons. Maybe it’s because I spent the first part of my life in an agricultural community centred around seeding and harvest. You can take the girl out of the country… 

I don’t mind. In fact, I welcome the week in May where we prepare the ground and plant the garden. As I was turning soil and pulling weeds in the front bed last night, a sense of calm came over me. The job felt insurmountable, but with my two helpers, we made quick work of the quack grass and mixed the soil for some new perennials. I’ve often joked that after fifteen years of trial and error, I should just read a book about gardening and learn how to do it right, but trial and error seems to be my gardening style and I’m making peace with it.

My arms bear the marks of weeding under the rose bushes that I planted one year just to see if they’d take. They’re my favourite addition to our yard. They bloom from June to the first snowfall without fail, and their ruby red rose hips bring a cheerful pop of colour in the late days of fall. Our Saskatoons have barely ever given us enough berries to make a pie, but we enjoy daily handfuls in late July. The apple tree is a saga in itself, and after eight years we’re seeing enough fruit to have a taste. It’s more of a hobby garden than anything else, but it’s lovely. I battle critters all season long, so I guess we can consider it a pretty good year if we get anything out of it at all!

So many times I’ve wondered if I’m wasting my time and energy trying to grow things in less-than-ideal conditions on a shoestring budget, but I’m amazed at the beauty I’ve witnessed in this humble hobby garden. I’m even more amazed at the things the Lord is teaching me through this simple summer pastime, and at how good it is for my soul. Every year is different, and every year I’m changed by it.

I wonder if there are other areas of life that I am pouring into, areas that feel like they are a waste of time, areas of costly investment that one day will reveal fruit I cannot even imagine!

“So then, just as you received Christ Jesus as Lord, continue to live your lives in him, rooted and built up in him, strengthened in the faith as you were taught, and overflowing with thankfulness.”

Colossians 2:6-7 NIV

Every gardening year I’m reminded that sending my roots down deeper into Christ is the only way to truly thrive.

“No family will always be there. No talent will always be there. Your looks will certainly not always be there. Whatever it is you put your anchor down into, if it’s a circumstance, it’s like putting it into the water. Everything but the promise of God is water.” – Tim Keller

My roses. (Image: mine)

Growing

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My poor sweet little plant.

In the late days of fall, I received a beautiful little gift of red blooms to brighten my days. It was lovely for the first week or two, and with some watering I prolonged its life. But a short while later, it withered away to almost nothing. The stems were black and death hovered above its roots.

In years past I’ve simply tossed a plant like this into the compost with a shrug, but this year I wondered if it could be brought back to life. I cut it back, re-potted it, watered what was left and then waited. Nothing seemed to be happening, but I gave it a spot in the pale winter sunshine and watered it when needed. The Christmas season came and went and once the tree was down and the decorations were away, there stood the little plant, a slight bit of green poking through the dirt.

Amazed at its resilience, I faithfully cared for it and watched it grow and expand into a pretty little burst of green on the top of the piano. One day, half the plant died! So I cut it back again and nurtured what was left. As the weeks went by and spring crept closer, it was joined on the top of the piano by pans of vegetable seedlings, a pretty little succulent, some sunlight-hungry hollyhock sprouts, a mini-rose bush on a plant stand and an experiment that has us attempting to grow sunflowers in a small zip-top bag.

After already watering it once this week, I noticed this morning that it was shrivelled and sad. To my surprise, the leaves dropped at my touch. Disappointment set in. I had a plan for this little plant and we were nearly at the finish line! I was hoping that if I could keep it alive another month, I might be able to transplant it to the front planter outside and watch it bloom in the summer sunshine.

Can this little November plant be saved yet another time? I got to work pruning the sections that were definitely dead, gave it deep drink and found it a new home with more direct sunlight away from all the other plants. Only time will tell if my plant CPR will work, but the consistent work of checking, watering, re-potting and pruning was a necessity to give the two remaining stems a chance to survive.

After over a decade of trying my hand at growing things, I still have so much to learn, not only in plant care but in lessons that transfer beyond the soil to my heart.  

Jesus’ words in John 15 come to mind (John 15:1-8 NIV):

 “I am the true vine, and my Father is the gardener. He cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful. You are already clean because of the word I have spoken to you. Remain in me, as I also remain in you. No branch can bear fruit by itself; it must remain in the vine. Neither can you bear fruit unless you remain in me.

I am the vine; you are the branches. If you remain in me and I in you, you will bear much fruit; apart from me you can do nothing. If you do not remain in me, you are like a branch that is thrown away and withers; such branches are picked up, thrown into the fire and burned. If you remain in me and my words remain in you, ask whatever you wish, and it will be done for you. This is to my Father’s glory, that you bear much fruit, showing yourselves to be my disciples.”

Two little stems left to try again (image: mine)

With a Yawn and a Stretch

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Winter isn’t quite ready to let go, is it?

In springtimes past, a blast of warmth would settle in like an early alarm and in mere hours winter faded into memory. The natural world was instantly alive with tiny rivers rolling through the neighbourhood while golden rays raised new blades of grass and nudged the bearded irises awake. Bumble bees began to bumble and ants poked their heads out to see what all the fuss was about.

This year our late freeze is reluctant to relinquish its dominance. Crunchy deep snow remains in shadows where the temperature remains barely above freezing even when the sun is shining. The melt feels more methodical and calculated, with stubbornly chilly overnight temperatures keeping the ice and snow in place and modest daytime sunshine slowly shrinking the piles in the places it can reach.

We went for a walk near sunset yesterday and watched thin layers of ice form on the surface of the daytime puddles as the temperature dipped below freezing. Frozen diamonds stretched across the surface of the water, settling in for the night. We knew that in the morning we’d hear the water run again, but for now the world goes back to sleep when darkness falls.

We’re winter-weary, but we live in a place where spring snow brings the moisture we need for our growing season. It’s a mixed blessing, really, when March flurries begin to fly. We know the snow won’t stay, so we sigh and pull on our boots and hats one more time before heading out into the spring chill. One last round of tobogganing, one last cup of hot chocolate, one last winter memory before the muddy season.

Hope remains, though. The days are getting warmer and the spring sun is doing its annual work of revelation, displaying what’s been laying under layers and layers of late February snow. Rocks that need to be removed from the grass. Trash that blew into the yard before the snow flew. Decomposing pinecones and leaves from fall. 

The ugly things.

One afternoon, after basking in the glorious sunshine pouring into our front room, I looked out the window to see an old coffee cup lid laying on the flat, brown lawn. Clearly it had been there for weeks, buried under the snow. The sun had melted the snow away, leaving it behind.

It was ugly.

Easter is near now. With a yawn and a stretch, the world is slowly waking. Is my heart waking too? Do I find that I am moved by the things of God? Or is there a layer of icy self-protection? Is sin hardening my heart and weighing me down? 

What ugliness will the warmth of the Holy Spirit reveal in me?

“Not everything has to be a life lesson,” a friend joked to me several weeks ago.

“I can’t help it! It’s how I see the world,” I laughed in return.

Ordinary everyday life pricks my heart with parallels to the spiritual. I learn lessons from garbage laying on the lawn. Like a dirty, discarded coffee cup lid, sin lies hidden from view until the Holy Spirit does His revealing work in our hearts, melting away the denial and self-deception that prevents us from growing and thriving in His image.

Lord, do your work in me. Though it is painful, I surrender to Your gentle formation of my heart. Break the chains that bind me and the banish pride that blinds me.

This Easter season, wake me up to the truth that the cross isn’t just for everyone else – it’s for me.

Wake me up to your grace and goodness. Wake me up to your deep, incomparable love. Wake me up to the forgiveness and freedom You bring by Your death and resurrection. Wake me up, Lord, not only so that I benefit, but so that those You have placed in my life will bask in the glow of Your love poured out through me.

Soften my heart so that I might love others the way You have first loved me.

1 John 4:9-11 NIV

“This is how God showed his love among us: He sent his one and only Son into the world that we might live through him. This is love: not that we loved God, but that he loved us and sent his Son as an atoning sacrifice for our sins. Dear friends, since God so loved us, we also ought to love one another.”

(image: Patti Black/Unsplash)

Remember

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A mama house sparrow hops around our front lawn, looking for a bite to eat in the sunshine. Everything is alive now, with dandelions, saskatoons, apples and irises in bloom. Ants carry on, bees bumble from sweet flower to sweet flower, sparrows and chickadees flit here and there, robins diligently care for their broods. The hawks are back too, solitary hunters soaring and diving to fill their bellies.

Let heaven and nature sing!

In becoming what I like to call Noticers, we’ve caught breathtaking glimpses of our magnificent, carefully designed world right in our own backyard. I’m amazed at how many times I hear, “Mom! You’ve got to see this!”, an invitation to hurry out the back door to observe the shape of a spiderweb or quietly tiptoe across the deck to spy a house finch among the leaves.

For years I’ve thought that I was just one of those people who didn’t like change. We have this vintage book about opposites where the characters go to the circus and at the very end two of them are heading home. One says, “I’m sad that it’s over” and another one says, “I’m glad that it happened”. Guess which one I tend to be! I’m the one who sheds a few tears at the end of the Beatles Anthology every single time, even though we know from history how that story ends. It occurred to me this week though, that it’s not change itself I dislike but its hallmark sense of loss.

I find the slow rhythm of the seasons steadies me. Give me the first robin, the first handful of Saskatoon berries, the first pop of fall colour, the first blanket of snow and I feel confident in what lies ahead. These changes I welcome, although they’re bittersweet. New milestones, adventures and plans are exciting, but a sudden illness, unplanned large expense or unwelcome news can throw me for a solid loop unless I pause to remember not only who God is but also what He has done in the past.

This week I came across Psalm 116:1-7 — 

I love the Lord, for he heard my voice;
    he heard my cry for mercy.
Because he turned his ear to me,
    I will call on him as long as I live.

The cords of death entangled me,
    the anguish of the grave came over me;
    I was overcome by distress and sorrow.
Then I called on the name of the Lord:
    “Lord, save me!”

The Lord is gracious and righteous;
    our God is full of compassion. 
The Lord protects the unwary;
    when I was brought low, he saved me.

Return to your rest, my soul,
    for the Lord has been good to you.

Amen. Praise the Lord. He is good to me, even when my plans go awry, when interruptions come, when my energy is drained and I have little left in the tank. Even when the mundane is, well, mundane. Even when the day feels like an uphill climb or the pace of life is dizzying. Even when we have to say goodbye, and change brings its unmistakeable sense of loss.

Maybe, especially then.

What shall I return to the Lord
    for all his goodness to me?

I will lift up the cup of salvation
    and call on the name of the Lord.
I will fulfill my vows to the Lord
    in the presence of all his people.

(Psalm 116:12-14)

The foreshadowing of a fruitful year for our Saskatoon. (image: mine)

In Hidden Places

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Out on a hike in early spring, few signs of life are emerging. Purple crocuses are the first to peek their heads out of the ground, searching for sunshine. Rustling in a syncopated rhythm, the long, flat, brown grass dances in the breeze. Trees reach to the sky, slowly awakening after this long winter’s nap, though not quite prepared to unfurl their leaves in the chilly wind. 

The kids bound down the trail and slide into a small grove, eyes wide, drinking in the sights of the peaceful wood. If you held out a bit of bread you could share it with the resident chickadees, who would happily land on your hand for a small crumb. My eyes travel up to the tippy tops of the tallest branches, across and then down the rough bark, looking for anything unusual or interesting to share with my co-adventurers.

There it is. Down at the bottom, where the tree meets the bed of dried grass, a green beacon in a sea of brown: a patch of moss thriving in the golden glow of spring sunshine.

Growing in the hidden places.

Equipped to do so, too. Some types of moss still grow underneath the snow, with remarkable built-in protections like an antifreeze and sunblock of sorts when the weather is too cold and the sun is too bright.

Four small heads lean in close to see the emerald and lime hues sparkling in the light. This remarkable little plant is often overlooked in favour of blooming flowers and budding leaves, especially in warmer seasons. It is epitome of grit, flourishing in places other plants are simply not capable. Moss has been found in some of the harshest environments on the planet, with evidence of one type that went dormant for 400 years before springing back to life.

After a minute or so, the kids jump up and continue on with their adventure, climbing over logs and scampering through the brush, but I linger behind to snap a photo before catching up with their fast little legs.

The photo was forgotten until just a few days ago when I nearly scrolled past it looking for something else. My mind returned to that early spring hike on the sleepy hillside. During what has been a particularly challenging week, this unsuspecting patch of moss is a gift to me, a picture of fortitude and tenacity, reminding me of the One who equips us to grow in hidden places.

But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body. For we who are alive are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that his life may also be revealed in our mortal body. So then, death is at work in us, but life is at work in you.

It is written: “I believed; therefore I have spoken.” Since we have that same spirit of faith, we also believe and therefore speak, because we know that the one who raised the Lord Jesus from the dead will also raise us with Jesus and present us with you to himself. All this is for your benefit, so that the grace that is reaching more and more people may cause thanksgiving to overflow to the glory of God.

Therefore we do not lose heart. Though outwardly we are wasting away, yet inwardly we are being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary troubles are achieving for us an eternal glory that far outweighs them all. So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen, since what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal.

2 Corinthians 4:7-18 NIV

Tenacity.

The In-Between Season

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March may be considered spring in some parts of the world, but not here. We know better. 

In these parts we keep our winter boots next to our sandals. Our snow shovels coexist with our garden rakes. Up and down we go in a dance, swinging from a glorious glimpse of warmth and sunshine to wild blast of snow and ice and back again. 

I used to strongly dislike it.

I grew up in a part of the country that had distinct seasons. When winter came, summer trappings were tucked away for the next six months and cold weather gear took their place next to the door. After months of icicles on our eyelashes, northern lights dancing and pastel-coloured morning skies where ice crystals sparkled in the soft sunshine, the blue skies of April finally dawned and our bikes and sandals slowly emerged along with the migratory birds. 

When I moved here, I couldn’t understand how people lived with such volatile weather. You never knew what you’d wake up to, no matter how hard the forecast tried, especially in spring. It has taken several of these wild seasons to adjust to the carefree elements that come with living in the shadow of the mountains, where the heavy spring snow and the warm spring melt happen just a few hours apart. In fact, I’ve come to rather enjoy the ride.

The warmth of the March sun is invigorating, reminding me to live in the moment and take my kids out into the muddy puddles while we still have them. And when the snow brings much-needed moisture to our dry soil, we welcome it as a gift, knowing that it won’t last.

There is beauty in every season.

This week, I saw my first winter-white bunny with hints of brown, noticed the buds on the trees preparing to burst into bloom many weeks from now, heard the trickle of flowing water as the sun hugged the icicles on the roof.

And then, snow and cold returned, this time slowly and with the mysterious beauty of an icy veil. In the afternoon hours of a rather foggy, snowy day, we emerged from our house and made our way along our rather ordinary street, transformed into a Narnia-like wonderland after hours of winter mist.

Stunning. Magical. Absolutely enchanting.

“Wow! Look at that the trees! They’re so beautiful!” My seven year old’s eyes were wide with wonder, drinking in the living winterscape around her.

Thank You Lord for the constant reminder of Your love and care. For Your handiwork, evident in the frost-covered branches of a tree, gently hanging in the stillness of a cold early March afternoon. For praise uttered from the lips of children captivated by the world You have made. For these moments that pierce our hearts with Your glory. For Your gift of common grace that reveals beauty in every season. But most of all, for how all of these things point us to You as our true source of life.

This is the in-between season, not fully winter, not fully spring. It’s not lost on me that this season coincides with our journey toward Easter, an invitation to prepare our hearts for the most pivotal point in history and the central reason for our faith. As we consider humanity and the condition we find ourselves in, may the gradual lengthening and warming of the days remind us that our hope lies only in the saving grace made possible through the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. May we place our faith in Him, experiencing the transforming work of the Holy Spirit in our hearts, empowering us to live out the love of Christ in our regular, everyday challenges and triumphs.

“As a prisoner for the Lord, then, I urge you to live a life worthy of the calling you have received. Be completely humble and gentle; be patient, bearing with one another in love. Make every effort to keep the unity of the Spirit through the bond of peace. There is one body and one Spirit, just as you were called to one hope when you were called; one Lord, one faith, one baptism; one God and Father of all, who is over all and through all and in all.” 

Ephesians 4:1-6 (NIV)

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