Snow in spring

Sometimes it snows in May.

Just when you are starting to think warm thoughts, pull out the shorts and t-shirts, and plan your summer adventures. Just when you are thinking the long, cold winter is finally at an end—you can throw open the windows and breathe deep.

Suddenly you find yourself huddled in front of the woodstove—again—on a gloomy May day, watching snow—SNOW, for Pete’s sake!—cover the new buds on your apple trees.

It may be hard not to be grumpy.

It might be difficult to keep from whining.

You might have to refrain from marching right out and chucking a snowball at the nearest child frolicking in the sinful stuff.

But then your daughter tugs at your hand and says, “Doesn’t it smell good, Mom?” And the sun breaks through the clouds, and you hear the dripping from the trees and the birdsong rising through the cold air, and you see the vivid green poking up through white, and you remember.

Spring always comes. Life always follows death.

And sometimes the things that mean cold darkness today will mean lush new growth tomorrow.

Sometimes the brightest spring emerges from the darkest winter.

Today this snow reminds me of the God whose ways are much higher than mine, whose thoughts are not my thoughts. He tells me:

“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.
You will go out in joy    and be led forth in peace;
the mountains and hills
    will burst into song before you,
and all the trees of the field
    will clap their hands.” (Isaiah 55:10-12)

If I stop and still my heart, releasing my expectations, I can see the beauty. And I can almost hear the mountains singing.

To my mom: now I can say thank you

Reflections

When I pushed

you open

that cold night

demanding

to be released into the world,

the tearing of your flesh

was but the first pain of letting go.

No one told you

how that opening

wide of motherhood

would empty you out

and fill you

all at once.

Maybe you had imagined

cries in the dark at midnight

toy explosions

sibling wars

and the endless thankless art

of making a home,

But you didn’t know

how the letting go

would begin first with

yourself.

The pouring out was

effortless some days,

kisses lavished, songs sung,

joy thick as the laughter

that embraced you,

a child’s bright smile

easy reward

for invisibility.

Other days

I sucked it from you,

heedless of weariness,

unaware of your soul

that extended so far beyond

my small imaginings.

Did you ever long to be

seen?

Did you wonder when I

would really

know you?

Still

you stepped cheerfully

into the humble role

I cast for you,

and even as

you wove a world around me

hemming me in,

you made holes

to let the light in,

a space to breathe

and dream.

So many things I took

from you,

my child’s heart never knowing

who you really were,

the woman who labored

and loved long beyond

her own strength,

who made herself small

to give me the universe.

This rock (Revolution of Jesus, Part 3)

Silent.

After all that has happened, this is the worst. The finality of this silence. The earth has simply swallowed up your hope. Everything you thought you were living for is now sealed in stone. Dead.

And nothing matters now but that look.

After all your bold words about following Jesus to the ends of the earth. You couldn't even own Him to a simple servant girl. You lied. Three times. You denied the one thing that you have ever been sure of. All those years of following Him. All your hopes. You were going to lead the way.

"I don't know Him." The grief of those words crushes your heart. I failed Him. I hurt Him. And I can never take it back.

The world has closed silent around those last words, and you must carry the knowledge of His eyes on you, burning into your heart.

Maybe you thought He couldn't hear you? That He wouldn't know?

But then He turned, and His eyes found you, and they brimmed with the sorrow of your denial. They pierced you with the knowledge of your failure.

But the sorrow in those eyes was all for you. The knowledge was for the burden you now bear.

You can still feel His hands holding your feet, staying your sword. You can hear His voice filled with agony, asking you to pray with Him.

And really, what have you done but fail this Lord again and again, with Your bumbling words, your impulsive zeal? And what did He ever do but gently say, "Not this way. Follow Me."

The truth is that revolutions always ultimately fail. You may rise up and act, you may work for a worthy goal, and you may even succeed for a time in throwing off the old and bringing in the new. But  in the end we cannot escape ourselves. We always wreck everything in spite of our best intentions.

We all stand in the loud silence of our sorrow and sob, "What have I done?"

We all must look aghast at who we really are and stop pretending.

You may even know beyond doubt that Jesus defeated death. You may have heard the angels, seen the grave clothes lying empty. But for you--your revolution has failed.

You failed Him.

You failed yourself.

And so you return to what you know. To life before the revolution. Even though you swore you would never go back. Even though you work all night and catch nothing--another failure. This is what you know. This is who you are.

And then you hear a familiar voice telling you to do something familiarly ridiculous, like, "Throw your net out again." Even though you already threw it hundreds of times and came up empty.

And as you haul in the net that is already breaking under the strain of so many fish, your mind flashes back to another moment exactly like this one, the moment your life truly began. The moment hope was born.

It is the Lord.

And you know it's silly to hope after all you have done, but you cannot help it--you leap into the water and splutter and splash gracelessly to the shore where you fall at His feet.

He raises you up. He feeds you. Just like all the other times, when you think He should be arming you for battle, He feeds you.

He looks into your eyes, and His own are filled with the sorrow of your suffering.

"Do you love Me?"

Three times. Once for every denial.

And  you choke out your love for Him and this time your words are not bold and fiery and confident. They are broken.

This is the rock He will build on. This broken thing, who understands shame. And failure. And regret.

Because really, how can you understand hope unless you have been hopeless? How can you tell the world of the grace He offers unless you have first known despair?

"Feed My sheep."


This is a revolution of hope. A revolution that will save us from ourselves. A revolution that never stops, because we we never stop denying Him, and He never stops restoring.

Because what we really need--what all of us need--is not the overthrow of kings or armies. Not the accumulation of things. Not the success that still leaves us empty.

We are hungry. We need to be fed.