By
I’ve always been a fall person. I love the leaves crunching under my feet, the hint of backyard fire pit smoke, and cooler evenings. But spring has come upon me like a lion this year, forcing me to sit up, take notice, and see the good in how God transforms shadows into light.
Let me explain.
While fall has always been my favorite season, winter was a pretty close second. I don’t mind darker nights when they’re set to a backdrop of fireplaces, cozy blankets, and hot cocoa. I love the heraldic blue skies because their hue seems just a little richer when it’s only available for a mere eight hours a day.
That’s why spring surprised me.
We’d barely said hello to winter this year when the birds flew back from Florida, escaped their winter hideaways, and sung beautiful melodies even if they sounded out of tune to me.
Our family had walked a few hard roads during Christmas and the dawning of the new year, so we mostly missed January—save the birds’ arrival.
In February, as if on cue for Valentine’s Day, cherry blossoms scattered the street I take to work, making the slow, easy slope I usually tred to spring entirely impassable. It was as if the Georgia Department of Transportation was repairing the stretch of winter I was accustomed to taking back and forth to my day job, and I suddenly had to learn a new route: springtime nearly six weeks early.
What happens when we want the joy of spring but we’ve not yet finished grieving the shadows and hardships of winter?
Is it okay, I wondered, if I’m just not ready for spring? Will I be passed over, too melancholy for the season when others are crawling out from behind their cubicles to take an early evening walk or attend the baseball game of their neighbor’s kid?
Essentially, I’m asking: What if spring came and went, and I never noticed because I was stuck in the feelings, the entanglements of a winter I’d only just begun to accept? Then I remember John 16:33: “In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.”
Our communal Lenten practices at church and in my women’s Bible study are teaching me that I am not behind. I can embrace the shadows and the light simultaneously.
But it hasn’t always been this way.
I grew up in a Catholic household after my mom remarried, and Lent was a familiar if often misunderstood season; we gave up something that we loved for a period of 40 days, even if I didn’t understand why. Some years I gave up TV unsuccessfully; others, it was chocolate (also unsuccessfully). We ate fish on Fridays when I was home, but I certainly didn’t adhere to it while out with friends.
I just never got into it.
But, after years of pursuing my faith in a different liturgical context, I’ve come around to see the beauty in letting go, the simplicity of shadows that fall across a landscape of not-yet-seen hope-in-flesh and the here-and-now kingdom on earth as opposed to the new one Jesus will usher us into someday.
I get it now. The song of the birds escaping their cozy nests is my song, too:
“As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, my God. My soul thirsts for God, for the living God. When can I go and meet with God?” (Psalms 42:1-2.)
Lenten practices and following our church calendar have given me a tiny glimpse into what it means to embrace the fullness of a seasonal shift. Our longing leads us to more. We have to give space for the dark in order to recognize the beauty of Light's “good morning.”
By giving up regular rhythms and work routines during our not-normal winter, I welcome the advent of spring’s irregularity. The flowers sprout blooms before the final frost has dawned, the cardinals’ chorus beckons me to get up from my heated office, car, or hospital room and step into the morning-cool temperatures outside.
Still, mere days later, our too-early spring seemed to fade; sunshine’s rays were no longer visible to the naked eye. The trees have yet to spring bright green leaves; the grasses are covered in frost when I drive past those cherry blossom trees again.
However, like I learned about our family’s health journey this winter, I know now that this dance will continue to wax and wane: Somewhere between the melody and the harmony, I’ll find a peace that settles not because everything around me is glorious. In fact, this side of heaven, we and our circumstances will never be perfect.
Instead, my comfort and peace lie in the ability to sense God’s presence — He who is Holy here in the almost-spring — who calls me to embrace both spring’s struggle to emerge and its transformation once it fully arrives.
While we might cocoon on the colder days, we still come out for dinner on the back porch with party lights when there’s a picturesque spring sunset.
While I relinquish my time in ways that are unique to Lent, I still hold fast to the necessary routines, rhythms, and family commitments that keep us going.
While spring whispers, “I’m home,” I listen closely, confident that the Lord who began a good work in our Creation will also carry to completion the good work He began in us.
What a gift.
Brooke Turbyfill is a writer born and raised in Atlanta, and while she loves the familiarity of the city, she now lives north of it by about 45 peach-named county roads, side streets, and overpasses. She and her husband, James, are raising two teens. She writes about finding beauty in the middle of life and parenting...before we've reached the destination or even figured out which way the GPS says to go. In her spare time, Brooke enjoys hiking, spending time with friends, and collecting way too many books for her TBR pile.
When thinking about the theme of Spring, I had similar sentiments as much more of a fall/winter-lover. Thanks for sharing, and reminding us of the beauty of all seasons.