Winter has been long this year, biting deep across much of North America. Where crocuses and snowdrops were bursting and glowing in previous years, now the stubborn mud refuses to give way. It’s affecting everyone at my house – I see us straining to catch a patch of blue sky, a sprout of green in the garden, the smell of spring in a breeze. We haven’t caught much.
While thinking about the spring awakening we long for, I realized that other changes will come with it. We’ll spend more time outdoors, less time reading; more time playing tag, less time playing make-believe; more time picnicking, less time telling stories around the table.
Is spring bad for the imagination?
I’ve decided I don’t think so. Every day is grace, and I’m hoping winter’s heightened awareness will continue with us. If spring takes us away from stories we love, maybe it’s a time to be more aware of our own stories.
If we slow down to treasure the ressurection of daffodils, maybe we’ll find wordless words that describe our deepest longing, for the Great Spring at the end of time.
If we run, and laugh, and muddy our knees, maybe we’ll learn something about the joy of being creatures made from dust, yet beloved.
If I cheerfully help clean muddy footprints without reproach, maybe they will glimpse a shadow of our gracious heavenly Father. He is kind. He is beautiful, and he made a world that begs us to dive in, headfirst and headlong. Spring is coming. If we see it, if we respond, maybe it will help us to imagine Kingdom Come. Maybe we will worship.
I hope so.