In some places in the country, I’m seeing pictures of blossoming peach orchards, daffodils and greening grass. On the first day of spring here, it snowed in the morning—and then a bitter wind spent the rest of the day kicking all that snow up into the air in great billowing clouds, forcing us to plow the driveway due to drifting. If you live here, too, you’re not surprised or alarmed. It’s a typical Minnesota weather move.
I made the mistake of announcing that it was the first day of spring to my children. I meant it tongue in cheek, of course, but later in the day, they informed me that they had packed up all the ski boots and put them away in the basement. “Whatever for?” I inquired in surprise, because cross country skiing has been something they’ve really enjoyed as recently as the day before. “Because you said it was spring now, Mom!” Oops. So we had a little educational session on equinoxes and lengths of days, but they just looked at me, puzzled, as if to say, “Mom, everyone knows that spring is a temperature, not a day on the calendar.”
I was going to do a post entitled “First Day of Spring”, featuring pussy willows, which appeared during one fleeting warm spell a couple weeks ago. But when I finally got out to take the pictures, what I got instead was this ironic juxtaposition of seasons. I may have been taking pictures of pussy willows, but what it really felt like was just the next day of winter.
Much as we’d sometimes like it to be, spring just isn’t a day on the calendar for us. It’s no short, sweet announcement. Instead, it’s a slow thing, that creeps up, teases, eludes. But still, watching spring unfold, painfully slow but sure, gives me hope—which is something we all need a little bit more of right now.
All over the world, people are facing lockdowns, quarantines, alarming numbers of the ill and the dead mounting, economies teetering in uncertainty. Everyone’s ready for it to be over with, but at this point it still looks like it’s going to get worse before it gets better. We cling to the hope that things are going to ease up eventually, but when? People keep guessing, but the truth is, nobody really knows. Watching for the end of this thing involves no set date on a calendar, much as we’d like it to. It’s a whole lot more like living through March in Minnesota: when it feels like it should be the end of a long winter, but sometimes we just keep getting more snowstorms instead.
What we do know, however, is that winter always does end, and spring always does come, because the God who put the seasons into motion has promised that they will remain in steady motion as long as the earth shall endure.
“While the earth remains, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, day and night, shall not cease.” (Genesis 8:22)
Sometimes it’s a little sooner, sometimes it’s a little later, but nobody ever wonders if. Just when. And the same God who keeps His promise to sustain the rhythm of seasons, has also given us these promises:
“…And, lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.” (Matthew 28:20)
“In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world.” (John 16:33)
Remember: no matter how long this current trouble lasts, He is still in control and present in all these things. Watch for Him at work, and you will surely see Him.
Not when the trouble’s gone, but right there in the midst of the turmoil—
like the pussy willows budding resilient in the falling snow…
like the little ducks bravely coming back to paddle along the melting edges of icy creeks…
like the two patient white lumps posted on our frozen lake, splendid swans trumpeting in triumph as they patiently await the thaw.
I didn’t get out to walk as much as I normally like to this winter. And for the first time in years, I didn’t even touch my skis, because by the time I got through postpartum recovery and felt up to getting on them again, the snow drifts were being measured in feet, not inches. Even you avid skiers know how daunting breaking a trail through that is!
But circumstances are never an excuse for failing to find joy.
And I learned to really savor few opportunities I did have to snap a photo. These were taken while…
There are a lot of parallels here to the strange times we’re living in right now. A pandemic is weird, strange and scary, and we’re all feeling the effects of it one way or another. We’re chafing because we can’t go places when we want to. We’re missing people and faces and fellowship. We’re disappointed at cancellations and postponements. We miss the days when you didn’t feel like you were hazarding your life and everyone else’s every time you walk into the grocery store. We’d really like to have a normal conversation again that didn’t contain the words mask, CDC or quarantine.
Normal life will return eventually, but while you’re waiting, don’t miss the unique gifts and blessings that God may have for you during this pandemic. When we look back on 2020 in years to come, let’s be grateful that we learned new good lessons and lived this strange and memorable year well, instead of regretful that we spent it chafing for it to end.
And not-so-exciting old things—
And not so fun new things—
“
Farewell to watching the snow banks mount to the window sills and the thermometer drop out of sight,
Farewell to the 
Farewell to rainbow sun dogs,
Farewell to conjuring up baking projects just for the sake of making the kitchen cozy,
Farewell to the best and longest ski season in years,
Farewell to the long dark of winter evenings,
Farewell to winter.
At the top of the sledding hill, the soft whir of tiny wings and the pleasant songs of chickadees surrounded me. They were dancing among the slender tree branches, up above my head against the deep blue of the afternoon sky, taking turns bobbing in and out of the dangling feeder.The rust-breasted nuthatch didn’t stir from his post on a square of suet as well-bundled sledders shouted their way down the hill, not even when I dared peek around the tree trunk to get a better look at him. In fact, he turned out to be a bit of a show off. Bet you can’t hang upside down while eating a chunk of lard. 
He looked at me skeptically, so I figured I’d better prove my point. I left him and his feathered friends to their feast, and down I went, small daughter tucked securely between my knees, flying over the bumps on the snowy track in the direction of the cattails. Down at the bottom of the hill, where the sun was laying long shadows across the river bed, there was an explosion of powder as the sled hit previously un-excavated snow. I shouted in triumph. My daughter, with a surprise face full of powder puff snow, was not so impressed. There were tears, then sniffles, then, to my relief, giggles as a generous sled ride up the hill was offered as recompense.
As I paused briefly to catch my breath, I noted that the birds were still bobbing and flitting in and out of the swinging feeders at the top of the hill. In the midst of this long, hard winter, they were obviously grateful for kindness of these and other thoughtful neighbors that make their daily food search easier. I am grateful to the same neighbors for letting us take over their steep back yard for an afternoon. Also grateful for the warmth exertion supplies, coupled with the sunshine that made it seem not quite as cold as the thermometer read.
At the top, I gave my older daughter a hearty push for a solo trip down the hill, then opened the screen door for Miss Purple Mittens to head happily indoors to hot chocolate. (Bless you, Martie, for that!) I deliberated over which child to follow—but then a large hairy woodpecker swooped in and made my decision easy. Perhaps the only thing quite fascinating enough to distract me from sledding or a good hot drink is a compelling photo opportunity.
There was no buck in sight that sub-zero evening, but he didn’t need to be there. His story was written as clearly across the January ground as though he’d penned a tale and published it.
Then this word carved on this stone is for you, too. It’s an invitation to break free of that inner thing that is dragging you down, to muster the courage to let go, to summon the strength that is yours to claim in Christ and bravely lay aside. Shed it like a useless old antler, like an outgrown baby tooth. Drop it on the ground, throw it in the garbage—and leave it there. Then walk on, without looking back, into the fullness of freedom Christ longs for you to experience.
10:20 PM CST, nearly fully eclipsed, after which my camera decided it didn’t care to focus at -30 F.
Perhaps the best thing about winter is that you don’t have to wake up in the wee hours to watch the sun rise. For instance, you can roll out of bed at the usual time, spend half an hour bundling yourself up, stumble your way around the pre-dawn perimeter of an unfamiliar hotel building, risk life and limb to bump your way in sitting position down the steep bouldered bank to the shore—and still make it in time to watch the entire show at leisure.
The wind off the big lake was so surprisingly mild for December, and the sound of the rhythmic waves so pleasant, I found a non-icy log to perch on and paused from my photography long enough to pull out my phone and find my Bible reading plan for the day. And this, totally unplanned by me, was what popped up:
It was like God whispering into the stillness of the dawn that these photos I was taking were really pictures of Him.
As I picked my way back along the sun-kissed shore, pondering this, I looked up and spotted a different trail up the bank. It was a safer, gentler route, one that I couldn’t see in the unfamiliar, un-mapped darkness, the way I should have taken on my way down. I headed up, the sun warm on my back, relieved to walk confidently and upright instead of clambering awkwardly.
I clearly remember the first time I saw a mosaic portrait in real life.
Of course, I’ve long been familiar with simple mosaics. There were the tile floors I helped my dad grout, and the bathroom walls of a favorite coffee shop studded with bits of broken china. I had sewn colored squares of fabric into the mosaic of a quilt or stitched a myriad tiny x’s to make a cross-stitch pattern. I once taught an overview class on mosaics to 7th and 8th graders, which concluded with making our own of tiny pieces of colored paper on black poster board to line the school cafeteria walls. But on this day, I knew that I had previously known next to nothing about mosaics in comparison to the piece of art before my eyes.
I was drawn to the portrait because, unlike the oil paintings around it, it shimmered with light. That was the only difference from any distance. I actually thought it was a painting until I walked up to it and read the placard beneath, which identified it as a mosaic—and it was only then that I looked closely and realized that what had appeared to be a painting was really a myriad tiny pieces of glass painstakingly composed into the tender likeness of a mother and her child. 
It was Mary, cradling the baby Jesus, of course; a truly breathtaking masterpiece.
Hundreds of prophecies over thousands of years, each piece coming together flawlessly in the grand unveiling of God’s masterpiece plan to save mankind.
So many intricate pieces. Such flawless, artful and epic execution. But the thing that really floors me is this:
“But God, being rich in mercy, because of the great love with which he loved us, even when we were dead in our trespasses, made us alive together with Christ
Photos: beneath the Ghost Bridge, Lake Superior, December 2018
Rejoicing Hills 