Andrea Sanborn

We Northwoods folk are basking in the sweetness of a few Spring days. False Spring before Second Winter, the cynical among us call it.

But still, to stroll the block without coats, to crack the window for the midnight owls’ song, to watch the squirrels chase each other through the woods…it’s a gift before the snow returns.

Because it will return; perhaps this week, perhaps the next, it will return to kiss too-eager grass with its “not yet” breath while we pull our gloves on again.

And that’s the way of it, isn’t it? Winter to Spring and back again instead of a steady climb to growing season not only in our flower gardens but in our soul-gardens too.

This is the tug-of-war between the new life and the old, the cold bite of disappointment wrestling with the hope of better. Of more. Of failure and forgiveness, of discouragement and hope, of worry and contentment.

And yet we feel the sap rising, the growth stirring, because we know, (we know!) that everlasting life starts here and now, and we are a resurrection people.

The stone was moved that Sunday morn, death’s sting swallowed up in soft morning light. True Spring arrived in a winter world of false hopes and trampled dreams. It came despite all of evil’s icy efforts to hold it back.

The curse was broken, and soon, (soon!) our Second Winter will give way to Forever Spring in all of its bursting, blossoming glory. And we will dance, coatless, in endless sunny fields shouting with joy.