And Then It Was Spring

If you've read here long, you know I enjoy gardening. Sometimes, I enjoy the idea of gardening more than gardening itself. In March I paint mind pictures of impossibly perfect vegetables. In August, gardening is just plain hard work.

But the last two years, I've decided I needed gardening.

On the days that started by driving into the city while it was still dark and walking down long halls and sitting in small rooms talking with white-coats, I spent the evening in the midsummer dusk hacking out tall weeds. I couldn't control the monster cells in my husband's brain, but I could drip sweat and break finger nails by battling weeds. I didn't care if I ate any fruit from my garden, I just needed to be there.

Last spring, I would, with some guilt, leave Ed on his recliner to scratch at the moist earth and dribble seeds into rows. The contrast between a world awakening to springtime and my husband's body shutting down was painful, but I needed the hope of springtime to remind me that I was still alive and had children to water and nurture.

Now, a year later, our world feels shrouded in a fog. This spring, we are walking a confused path together, all over the world, each one trying to find our way on an unknown road.

But here in Pennsylvania it is spring. The bluebirds and robins don't know anything about a virus. They are gathering twigs and building nests as always. I watched two male mallards chase each other across the pasture, vying for a mate's attention or defending their territory.

The ordinariness of spring bulbs, flowering trees, and the first dandelion is strangely comforting. So much has changed. Plans are uncertain. But so much is the same.

"I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee...The Lord is my helper, and I will not fear what man shall do unto me...Jesus Christ the same yesterday, and to day, and for ever." (Hebrews 13:5,6,8)

I don't fear the future. I don't know what is going to happen, but after last year, when maybe the worse I could imagine did happen, I learned that with God I can survive the impossible.  I don't like inconvenience. I certainly don't like suffering. But I know that God is a whole lot bigger than my fears, and I'm willing to load my worries on Him.

And then I'll find some weeds to pull. And push a hoe through damp earth, throw in some seeds, and look for a harvest later this summer.

My prayer is that God's work in our hearts, through the softening of this storm, will bring abundant harvest.