Welcome to Spring!

Letter from the editor of the Redbud Hyphen

Dear Friends,

I got the little taste of winter I mentioned last month. I spent most of 4 days in Connecticut where the lows were in the teens and the highs were in the 30s. Granted, I spent most of that either in a heated vehicle, a heated hotel room, or a heated office, but still. I got to tromp through some snow just a tiny bit, and it was fun.

But enough of that. Back in Orlando, I had my windows open all day and took a bike ride this morning when it was in the 50s. I’m definitely more of a spring gal. I tend to look on the bright side of life. Believe the best in people. Love sunshine and songbirds. (Ignore the fact that I get sunshine and songbirds all year round in Florida.)

And it’s baseball season! I’m a big fan. I don’t live in a city that hosts a major league team, so I continue to be loyal to my Oakland A’s, traveling to Tampa several times to watch them play. Spring brings the joy of watching the game I love start up again after a long hiatus. 

What does spring mean to you?

In the months of March, April, and May, our Redbud writers will be sharing with you words that evoke a feeling of spring, and that will mean different things to different people. Easter and the glorious message of the Resurrection happens in the spring—but so does the dark day of crucifixion and the uncertainty of the tomb.

Highs and lows. Gains and losses. Joys and griefs. Every season contains them; every season embodies them in its own different way. Just as our writers here at the Redbud Hyphen will express their feelings about spring in their own different way.

May their words bring hope.

Editor in Chief

The Redbud Hyphen

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Life Returns

By Taryn R. Hutchison

More blades of grass have pushed against the hard crust of dirt overnight, casting aside the lids of their temporary coffins. Tiny buds, like goosebumps on the arms of trees, begin to appear. Soon they will blossom, turning the trees into seas of white or pink or purple. Daffodils burst out of their cold, buried bulbs, laughing as their bright yellow trumpets dance in the March winds.

Once again, spring stubbornly thrusts itself upon the world, ready or not, transforming dull brown into a riot of color. The blades and blooms rise, as they do every spring, and my spirits rise with them. Against all odds, life returns. Life always returns.

Every sense comes alive again with spring. I hear the buzz of bees working tirelessly to gather pollen. Songbirds trill their melodies. The perfume of flowers hangs heavy in the air. The breeze whispers against my face.

This winter has been especially long and difficult for me. I am slowly coming out of the valley of the shadow of grief. In my case, the loss is two parents after seemingly endless years of dementia caregiving. Covid, a sprained ankle, and cold weather have kept me inside most of the winter, away from the world, still. But not alone. Never alone. God has been with me in my valley.

We all experience losses and sadness. The relentless wars in Ukraine and Gaza remind me how frail the world is. At times, it feels as though winter will never end, spring will never come. 

And yet. Slowly, the black bears—common in these hills in which I live—come back to life, step out of their coffins after a long hibernation. Wild pansies and daffodils, called johnny jump ups and jonquils by my Pennsylvania Dutch grandmother, seem to do just that, to jump out of the frozen soil. I shake off the gloom of winter and take my first steps back into the world. I test to see if my new freedom is real. I am not sure.

I imagine the blooms and blades with the same apprehension. Their heads appear on the surface, eager to be greeted by the sun’s caress. Even the soft rain feels nourishing. But sometimes high winds blast or bitter cold returns, reminding them winter still has another hurrah left.

There are times I prefer the cold, when gloomy days feel right. All I want to do is sit in my window seat with my fuzzy afghan, a good book, and a cup of hot cocoa. To be quiet. To think and remember, alone. There’s nothing wrong with that. In fact, it can be therapeutic. It was my therapy for grief.

Some seasons, some winters, are like that. Hibernation has a purpose. There are times we need to turn inward for our own survival.

“As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish, so that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater, so is my word that goes out from my mouth: It will not return to me empty, but will accomplish what I desire and achieve the purpose for which I sent it” (Isaiah 55:10-11, NIV).

We aren’t meant to stay hidden away forever. Neither are the daffodils or the bears. At some point, it’s time to get up and take the next step. Nobody can tell you when it’s your time. Only you can know that. I know my time is now. 

Spring can be invigorating. It marks the end of one season, the beginning of another. The first of March, called Little March, is a holiday in Eastern Europe, where I used to live. A celebration of spring, love, and friendship, it culminates in International Women’s Day on 8 March. Little March never fails to make me happy. 

Spring returns. Balmy weather beckons me outside. To a world filled with hope. One brimming with life. A world of triumph over the dreariness that can cloud our vision.

In a matter of weeks, we will remember when the bleakest winter gave way to the greatest hope ever. To life reborn, cracking wide the grave, made more joyful because of the darkness. To victorious triumph over death.

“See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone. Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing has come, the cooing of doves is heard in our land. The fig tree forms its early fruit; the blossoming vines spread their fragrance” (Song of Solomon 2:11-13, NIV).

Life returns.

Taryn Hutchison grew up in a town with 75 people, three million chickens, several dogs, and two imaginary friends. She went on to live in two other countries and visit a host of others on six continents. Taryn has authored four books: One Degree of Freedom and Two Lights of Hope, young adult historical fiction set in Cold War Romania; Sentenced to Life, the story of a prisoner who finds redemption; and We Wait You: Waiting on God in Eastern Europe, a memoir about her years as a single missionary in Eastern Europe. Taryn and her husband live in a sleepy town in North Carolina.