What Would it Take to Pull Death From the Ground
ice leaving Minnesota lake
Anderson Wolfberry
Coves Cassia
Rangy Ratany
Creosote in spring
Spring surprises us each year. Oh, not the fact that it is on the calendar.
But the unpredictability.
We say things like this in the desert:
"How come it is already over ninety degrees? It's only February."
And two minutes later, "Grab a jacket. It's going to be chilly tonight."
When I lived in Minnesota, we said things like:
"How can it be snowing? It's April!"
And two minutes later: "I need to go shopping for shorts."
And both groups of people, in different locations on the continent, exclaim: "I refuse to turn on the (air conditioning/heat), it's only ________ (fill in the month)!"
Why does spring always surprise us with its unpredictability when that is the essence of springtime? The winter does not easily give way to life. Death does not like to be pulled from the ground.
In Minnesota, we watch for crocuses and in the desert, we watch for poppies, and something unfurls inside us with the promise of the blooming.
My sister annually posts photos of the ice leaving the lake, "when the light winds switch and the remaining sheets of ice push up and create a symphony of chandelier-ice sounds" on their shore.
Aren't we all listening for the winds to shift?
One night last week I wrote down twenty-seven things on my to-do list for the next day. Twenty-seven reasons to stay home and put my nose to the proverbial grindstone, yet when morning arrived, I slung my day pack on my shoulder and did a short jaunt in a desert wash at South Mountain with Mollie, the trail-loving dog.
I am in a season of not enough time, with more things on the to-do list than seems humanly possible, but having cancer taught me that I am always in that season of not enough, so I head to the mountain to capture the fleeting-ness of desert spring.
The orange of the Anderson Wolfberry. The yellow of the Cove's Cassia. The vibrant purple in the Range Ratany, the flowers less than 1/4 inch in size.
The creosote bush amuses me. Is it winter? Is it summer? Berries, flowers and buds appear on bush after bush - this mix of winter giving way to spring giving way to summer, a battle of yellow and green, past and future, life and death. The bush can't seem to decide.
But don't I know this same confusion? This dying in order to live? Seeds must be wholly undone to give way to the vow hidden in their depths.
"Unless a grain of wheat is buried in the ground," Christ's disciple wrote in John 12:24-25 (MSG). "Anyone who holds on to life just as it is destroys that life. But if you let it go, reckless in your love, you'll have it forever, real and eternal."
Let go. Be reckless in your love. Real. Forever. Eternal.
Embrace the winds of change. The unpredictability. The struggle of new emerging life.
"What would this look like?" we ask each other in a Life Group of women I meet with each week. "What would it look like to die, surrender, sacrifice, or yield in grace and given-ness...in your current situation?"
*I have a FB friend who has decided to give up pride for Lent and daily posts about what chronic breast cancer looks like -- the no-longer hidden behind different colored ribbons disease -- for a mom still raising kids, still having dreams, still struggling with winter not yet spring.
And I am forced to ask myself: What would it look like for winter to give way to spring in my life? In my family? With my to-do list? What does it mean to die and surrender? To yield?
What would it take to pull death from the ground?
*Quote from the study guide, The Broken Way by Ann Voskamp. Page 19.
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