There was only–spring itself; the throb of it, the light restlessness, the vital essence of it everywhere: in the sky, in the swift clouds, in the pale sunshine, and in the warm, high wind–rising suddenly, sinking suddenly, impulsive and playful like a big puppy that pawed you and then lay down to be be petted.
Willa Cather, My Antonia
I do believe everyone should write at least one essay a year on the seasons. Seasons, the marked time changes occurring regularly throughout the year, as the earth spins about the sun in one orderly orbit.
Write on a season, if not all of them. Seasons are magnificent, and if a man can write a beloved book about them called Charlotte’s Web–from the viewpoint of a happy, dumb pig–so you, too, ought to be able to marvel for joy’s sake at the miracle of life.
Nothing gives me more hope than spring in Colorado. To be fair, the winters aren’t terrible, just long in a miserable sort of unending way. On the mountain, we would have snow sometimes from September to the end of May. Nine whole months. It would sit on my roof and surround our home. From above it looked no different than an igloo, the brown siding hardly peeking out beneath the weight of it. From the inside looking out I could only see a wall of ice to the east, a chilly, bare mountain peak to the west, and my neighbor to the north–a determined, hardened mountain woman, who constantly stomped up and down her outdoor stairs with a shovel, clearing the path from her house to her car.
There were three hours in the day where the sun would hit our homes on the north-facing slope. It’s no wonder we suffered from a lack of vitamin D, no wonder we felt the need to linger in town on grocery-run days. Each week I made my faithful trek to the rec center swimming pool with kids in tow. We would wade into the deliciously warm water, risking the scolding of whatever teenage lifeguard thought it necessary to remind us that the water wasn’t open to children before 10am (we generally arrived ten minutes early).
It was no wonder I felt overwhelmed and trapped when I had to return with my car full of kids on those days. No wonder despair hit me as I pulled off the main road and into our shadowy, Narnia-esque subdivision. The bears had their lucky advantage of hibernating; all I had was little pots of starter seeds by the window (my tiny green exhibit A on hope) and my own not-exactly-iron will to wait patiently. Ice would thaw and freeze, thaw and freeze on my deck like some science experiment, a life-sized diorama showing how nature destroys and reforms the earth’s crust–only it was my back deck that resisted and then bowed beneath the slow, ever-moving, mantle-shifting glaciers.
Now I am in town with blessed pavement for a driveway, where the snow shovel hits concrete when I scrape. There is no north side of mountain, blocking the sunshine and trapping snow and ice and holding it hostage for months on end. We haven’t had a snow blower in three years, and I am giddy when it comes to shoveling the driveway because my car is safe in the garage, not buried like some hotwheels car in a sandbox. There’s no more attempted rescue missions to get the Honda Pilot out of its snow tomb before the school bus arrives at 7am, all while babies scream for breakfast and kindergartners search for missing shoes.
All I have to do is pull on my boots, press the button to raise the garage door, and move snow off the driveway. I can get the job started knowing the sun will do his reliable thing like he always does. He will meet me halfway and melt the last glitters from the ground before the morning shadows have shrunk to noonday.
It’s a pesky matter, snow in May. But it isn’t a surprise. It’s just Spring.
Oh, snow. Again. On my baby tomato plants. Guess we’ll start over.
Compared to my upbringing in Missouri, there is hardly a mud season (though the boys and dog intend on finding the exact three days with maximum mud and spreading it generously on my white kitchen floors), which is something I need to remember to be thankful for.
In Missouri, winter bleeds into spring and spring bleeds into summer. There is no all-illuminating marquee announcing its arrival. Little by little, there is no more mud. There are daffodils and lilacs and a sweet thickness in the air; wet socks, shoes, and ankles on your morning jaunt through the yard to take the trash to the curb. Another day you must mow the grass or risk the lawn becoming an untamable beast. You wake up later than usual and discover, to your dismay, that the humidity outside is oppressive at 7am (you remind yourself you really must get up earlier). In the evenings, mosquitoes begin to hum their reliable song of D sharp. You find your first tick, feasting discreetly on some unfortunate piece of your skin.
This is spring in Missouri. Or is it summer?
See? One cannot tell. But it has happened, and it is a glorious miracle, even thought I hate ticks and mosquitoes with an all-consuming hate. Food for the Charlottes among us, I suppose.
The science of seasons is incredible to me. How God Himself wakes up baby seeds and old perennials and dormant trees in His dependable way, not a moment too soon or a moment too late. Even the spring snow which is heavy and bends branches inevitably has its purpose–moisture is added to the ground, limbs are pruned. The earth, which we know has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth as it waits for children of God to be revealed (Romans 8) is, in the midst of her turmoil, still measuring time in heartbeats, in fruit and in flowers; in the reliable gestation of all creation.
The sun comes up and goes down. It is Law. The moon sits, never moving, above the earth at such a perfect distance and angle to reflect the sun at night. In predictable phases it pulls the oceans to shore and mysteriously keeps its eye on the shadows till dawn.
The skies meet the ground, and yet they never mix, because God separated them in the beginning. The water leaves the earth and eventually returns to the earth, not because we beg the gods to make it so or because we are responsible stewards of the earth, but because one perfect God designed a perfect cycle to nurture His creation.
Even more incredible is the reason behind His perfect creation: it is the Author of life who writes the story, the Artist and Composer who paints a perfect picture in words and colors and songs we understand, because seasons changing are a miracle we rely on.
And this is the eternal metaphor, the picture the Creator painted before time just so we might recognize Him:
As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.
As the rain and snow come down from heaven, and do not return to it without watering the earth and making it bud and flourish,
(He is explaining spring to me, even the Colorado and Missouri versions I know and love!)
So that it yields seed for the sower and bread for the eater,
(Now summer, and the fruit and harvest!)
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 55:8-11
He speaks to us through His creation. He tells us exactly His intentions and purpose. He is precise in His dealings with men, just as winter turns to spring turns to summer. Just as Colorado winters drag on, just as new blossoms drop their heavy scent, just as pollen blows off the trees with a strong wind to cover my bar-b-que grill in a yellow dust. Just as woodpeckers jackhammer their beaks and magpies scold the dog for eating its kibble, and weeds pop up and kids suck out their nectar. Just as we are drawn outdoors for warmth and sunshine–just as creation speaks to me, “Pearl, go sit outside and get some vitamin D and watch your kids laugh and giggle on the trampoline…” Even as natural as the weather beckoning me to enjoy it, God is speaking through His creation.
And though it is imperceptible like a Missouri change, mud to marvel, it is reliable. We know what we are looking forward to, because it has happened before and is happening even now. His word will accomplish what he desires. His purpose will be fulfilled.
Send me whatever script or poem or painting you come up with about seasons, and I will marvel along with you. Copy the Creator, if indeed imitation is the most sincere form of flattery.
Sing the song that all creation sings.
