Spring is in full force here in Central Texas. Bluebonnets and paintbrushes blanket our fields. The air feels crisp and clear, radiant with golden sunlight. This is the time of year when three of my children were born. It is when which I first fell in love with Thomas. March is hands down my favorite month in Texas.
Spring burst upon us suddenly this year. On the morning of March 3, I walked into the courtyard of the Oblate Seminary in San Antonio and knew it had arrived. The air was chilly from a fierce thunderstorm which swept through the previous night, but the sun shone brightly that morning. The birds sang triumphantly and the wisteria flowers opened, perfuming the courtyard. And suddenly, I felt sad.
Why such a gorgeous day, filled with with the promise of stimulating conversation and time alone with my husband, should evoke feelings of melancholy puzzled me. As I walked the Oblate grounds, the answer slowly dawned on me. The changing of the seasons reminds me that time is passing. The years before me are shorter than the years behind me. The world seems to be spinning faster than ever, and in a certain sense, it is true. Each passing year occupies a smaller percentage of my lifespan than the year before. Each new equinox drags me closer to the winter of my life.
As I thought about these things, I began to wonder if the earth is also feeling old? Is it aware, in some way, that its time is drawing to an end? Is it growing increasingly tired with each trip around the sun? Does it feel itself wobbling on its own axis, even as I ache now when I stand?
The birds, of course, know only this spring. They have no reason for melancholy. Each flower blooms only once, and so it bursts with unbridled joy. But the angels observe that colorful fields are scanter than ever. They remember bird songs which have gone extinct. They have watched the snows grow thinner, and raging waterfalls turn to trickles. They know a day of fire is coming when the mountains will melt as wax; the stars will fall from the sky; the sky will be rolled back like a scroll and the Lord will come to judge both the living and the dead.
But that day has not yet come. The earth is called to flower once again, for thus the Lord has ordained it. He is not finished with spring yet. He will keep this Passover feast with us. Jesus will enter into our Lenten fasts and our Easter celebrations, even as He is busy preparing a place for us in the Father’s house.
Knowing this, I push aside my melancholy. I fill my lungs with the sweetness of plum blossoms and give thanks. It is good to grow older because I am drawing closer to my eternal home. For now there is work yet to do – young ones to raise, books to write, feasts to prepare. There is life in these bones yet, creaky though they be.
Two of my favorite people celebrate birthdays today. My granddaughter Marian turns seven and my dear friend Cheryl marks 61 trips around the sun.
Marian is a little bird with her whole life before her. She is a flower offering her fragrance to a weary world. She is a bright-eyed, eager, joyful witness to hope. This world is the only one she has ever known, and in her eyes, it is full of wonder.
Cheryl, by contrast, has walked through several springs. She has born the heat of many summers, and the bite of bitter winters. She knows the world is growing weary, and she shares its pain. But she also is a witness to hope for she has seen the beauty of God. She has walked with the Father and trusts in His faithfulness. She can serve as a guide to younger generations because she knows how to find honey in the rock, and streams in the desert.
I am thankful for friends like Cheryl who continue to take up their yokes and plow with Jesus year after year. I am equally thankful for children like Marian who remind me why God so loves this world. I am grateful for the seasons of our lives which mirror the seasons of creation. Spring made me anxious for just a moment this year because it reminded me that I am no longer in the spring of life. I have entered the autumn of my years– a time of harvest - and that is also beautiful. I realize that my winter is coming, and my flesh recoils a bit at the cross which awaits. But after winter, I will enter a new kind of spring – with a new body, seeing a new earth for the very first time. I will be younger than ever and full of wonder at all God is waiting to reveal.
Even the sparrows have found a home in the missions at the Oblate Seminary.