Outside, the women bore holes in soil, sprinkling potential into plots made ready.
Inside, men arrange field rock and yard gravel around drainage ports.
Outside, fields nurture dying seeds, bringing life from boring insignificance.
Everywhere, family and field, cultivated and wild, wake in the wetness and warmth.
We look out, broad and wide, and look close, wondering at the intricate.
The paradox of life invites us, to groan and glory in this mystery of hope.
The incremental advent of Spring touches all of life, heart and soul and mind come alive again, and dream of a beautiful life still unexplored. This is the beauty of resurrection.
We can’t believe it: life from death is unbelievable. Perhaps that is why Christ stayed forty days after He rose; so we could see and know and question and ponder, and let the awe work transformation in our soul.
And we own Him as Lord and God, as Thomas did, when we see Him and know He is real, and He is good.
He lifts the veil, the dank and dark and frozen shell of winter, and melts us into spring. And this is the power of resurrection.
He renews the face of the earth, and revives the soul—in the moment, for the moment, through the moment. He pours forth life all the time, in every way, despite every horror and sorrow, a strength beyond us. And this is the wonder of resurrection.
So, wake our hearts, Lord, to see and feel and know You, and dance in the light of Your life song!
But why?
Why should we be glad for something we have not yet seen?
Why should we cherish such fervent expectation? Who gave us such a notion?
But then, tragedy strikes. Spring herself has gone missing. At first, she was just delayed, and we could bear it. But then news leaks that she has been caught up in foreign affairs. And our hearts flutter with momentary fear. Winter can be dogmatic and unfeeling: marvellous to wrap it citizens in fluffy coats of white, but unpredictable—sometimes the covers smother and stifle us.
We rally, and bring out coloured garments, go shopping for something new and bright. Our hearts betray our bustle. We worry, we fear, we bicker. It’s taking too long. We take out mounting frustration in vigorous labour, increased entertainment, louder noise—dulling the gnawing ache. 
Then we hear the news: Spring is further delayed at the embassy, perhaps even against her will, so the previous governor fills in till her arrival. He tries to be gentle and soft, but soft snow is wet snow, and we mutter choice complaints as we shuffle and slip along. We’re miffed.
But why? Why are we so disappointed by this withholding?
What were we expecting?
We bring boot and coat out of storage, and labour again in Winter’s fields, sighing resolutions, battling despair. Tears flow. Hearts heave. Heads bow. 
And then, the unexpected occurs. Our hearts begin melting. We didn’t even know they were frozen! Disappointment, anger, irritation, dissolve into streams of liquid grief. We see our stiffness, we feel our coldness, we struggle for air under the weight of our costumes.
And Winter thaws our hearts. We begin to see him, not as the enemy, but as a benefactor. In his exhausting reign, he revealed our impatience, our snootiness, our bigotry, and greed. We bow in shame and realized poverty; (and our hearts rise to face the dawning sun). We muscle slush, knowing we deserve nothing better; ( and our hands are strengthened ). We plod along; (and our legs grow stalwart).
And why? Why should we not mind the bitter blow?
Because we have seen the King. Because He has entered our sorrow and conquered our enemies. Being with Him dissipates our fear, dissolves our resignation, evaporates our gross rebellion.
Something stirs in our hearts, we feel the washing of a liquid stream. Could we be overcome by this wonder?
We look around, and gape in astonishment: when did blades of grass appear? When did tulips push through the mulch and snow?
We turn, dumbstruck, to the King. And He looks deep into us, through us, and smiles.
Then, He takes our hand, gently bracing our frame, and hums a love song. Before we know it, we discover that we’re dancing . . . with the King!
And that giggle behind our shoulder. It is Spring, waltzing with Winter.
And all at once we realize it: all our wishing and planning and groaning were not wasted. All our tears had a purpose, all our tripping and struggles are swept into a flurry of praise. This ball was not about us, not about Winter, nor Spring.
This is the King’s dance. And He makes all things—darkness and grief and sorrow and horror—to work together for His pleasure.
And we are His, in this dance of HOPE.
“Therefore my heart is glad, and my glory rejoices; my flesh also will rest in hope . . . You will show me the path of life; in Your presence is fullness of joy; at Your right hand are pleasures forevermore.” Ps. 16:11
“And not only that, but we also glory in tribulations, knowing that tribulation produces perseverance, and perseverance character, and character, hope. Now hope does not disappoint, because the love of God has been poured out in our hearts by the Holy Spirit Who was given to us.”
Air feels sloshy, a last toss of confetti at winter’s farewell party. Snow melts as it kisses earth, lingering only in the pervading drifts and clods and lumps of earlier storms, resilient against spring’s shy zephyrs.
Soon enough spring will gather up her skirts from the ground, her shawl from tree and bush, and her hair from roof and hill top; soon she will dance her cadenza.
Soon, but not today. Today, she rests quiet, loitering in nook and cranny and lee.
She can wait.
She can afford to wait.
Autumn generously lent to winter and summer days of both warmth and frigid cold. Winter loans days or weeks to his fellow seasons, all interweaving in this annual gala ball.
Sand and mud and muck splatter over cement and asphalt, the mess of cleaning paintbrush and palette, preparing for a new work of art. Crunch and grind, gravel and clay: the dismal, boring necessities of change.
Birds snuggle quiet in branch and bough, waiting the moment to sing and fly unencumbered. Now they practice in the quiet.
And I walk in the stillness of Sunday, waiting with the world for spring, musing, with creation, over this intricate dance. Clasping hands, releasing grip, walking together, then twirling around each other: all in time with Grace.
Sometimes I forget the Artist’s sheer goodness—not just in His creative genius, but in Himself.
How often do I satisfy my aching heart with the weak hope that something good will come of it, instead of resting happy, knowing that the One creating good IS good ?
These things aren’t so easy to hear in the bustle. We listen better in the quiet.
So thank You God, for Sundays, when we can be quiet, and think about You, and what You do, and Who You are.
You are good . . .
and do good.
Breaths of warm exhale, the world roused tenderly from winter slumber, the stillness of new season’s morning: these awaken the heart to dream, to praise, to love the sun-Maker. And it is a gift.
His smile, drawing life from immobile muck, coaxing window ledge plants to stretch from drowsy cold, eases the heart, and causes it to rest and delight. And it is a gift.
In a war-torn, ransacked world, He makes the rain fall on the just and the unjust, and calls the sun to rise on the evil and the good. His smiling moon bids us goodnight. And I wonder why He ordained for its cheery face to look on our ravaged planet. Does the other side of the moon frown? We cannot see it.
Nauseous with birth pains, the earth heaves and wretches, and we know afresh our own wretchedness, and we realize anew His mercies. And it is a gift.
Awakened to our own dullness, shaken mildly or wildly from our stupor, we ache from our long slumber. Stretching hurts—the soul, the body, the mind, the spirit. He energizes, and we obey His rousing call, wishing to feel more, to live better, to hope deeper, to give significantly. And it is a gift.
We discover our brokenness, and encounter our Healer. And it is a gift.
It is all a gift, because He is good, and He is sovereign.
And we can only receive His gifts with thanks, or refuse His gifts and exist destitute.
Give us grateful hearts, O God, to see and receive and thank You for your gifts.
We scuttle and shuffle and clamour down Grandma’s Lane, heading to the trails and woods and all that lays beyond. Boys on rip sticks and bike, girls pattering on foot and piggy back; we weave around each other and the cars driving past.
A boarded bridge spans the first journey leg; broken river lies in slabs under the car bridge. Water runs free and cold beneath our path. We must play Pooh-Sticks here on our return.
We set off collecting twig and branch, further down the meandering path. Woods are still, all washed and brown and ready for the endearing smile of spring’s warmth to coax bud out of hibernation. And we, the persuaded, delight in the light of a boggy March day.
Something stirs in the walking soul: it is wonder. We marvel at weed height and barn preservation and frozen ponds nestled in bulrush. We exclaim over clever stick choices. We laugh at memories made years ago. We listen to stories from movie line and real-life-lived. We tramp through stubborn drift of lingering snow. We try forming snowballs, but most dissolve in flight, too wet for bare hands and zig-zagging chase. I’m hit several times anyway, after scurrying in futile escape.
We turn around and come back to the bridge, hands and arms full of stick and bough and crooked twig. We climb the rails to peer over the side. On the count of three we drop our chosen vessels, gravity cascading them into the frigid flow. We dart to the opposite side to see whose stick comes out first. We whoop and holler and giggle and hurry to pick a new stick and try again. Up, drop, dash; up, look, cheer: over and over, till our supplies at last deplete.
Warmed and merry, the dreary colours can’t dampen our delight; they only prove to increase our anticipation of goodnesses to come.
And so we marvel and make merry in reunion; wondering at all God has done for us, remembering His mercy, recalling what we were like, and blessing Him for loving us anyways. The messy pieces of our lives, strewn across confused horizons, cluttered and dull in winter gardens, He will make to bud and flower. And in this quiet of waiting and resting and living normal life, a spring warmth grips our soul tighter and tighter, and embrace consuming, fulfilling, liberating.
