Spring has come early to us here in southern Connecticut.
Daffodils were already forcing their way above ground into the open air at the
beginning of February, though they have waited until this week to begin their
blooming season. I spotted the first brave crocus about three weeks ago. With
last week came a rush of warm air, temperatures rising on a restless wind that
stirred me to open all the windows and let the clean air sweep all the winter
staleness from my apartment. It stirred my heart, too: I grieve the winter that
never was, the deep cold nights full of stars I never had, the thick blanket of
snow that never drove the rest of the world inside as it bore up my snowshoes,
but there is a corner of my spirit that responds to the irresistible current of
spring. Something long dormant is awakening.
Having resigned myself to the end of the winter that never
came, I went on a long walk today, eager to search for signs of the emerging
spring. I wanted to see the haze of green spreading over the trees and emerging
from the cold ground. I wanted to feel the warmth of the sun on my back,
surrounding me like an embrace. So I stepped out.
And, of course, I was too early. Sure, the air smelled like
spring, and the sun was warmer than it has been in months, but aside from the
yellowing of the willows and the reddening of the tips of the bushes along the
river, no fresh green haze surrounded the path or crowned East Rock. The world
remained resolutely brown. In the back of my mind I knew it would be like this
all along, but I thought that just maybe I would see leaves unfolding anyway, a
defiant sign of hope.
In my branch of the Christian tradition, we talk about the
kingdom of God—the promised time of justice, peace, and wholeness—as being here
among us already, but also not yet fully here. The kingdom of God is here and
now, but it is also yet to arrive. Moved by curiosity and a willingness to
explore, I struggle to conceptualize the “already” and the “not yet” dimensions
of God’s kingdom. I have faith that the Divine works in and among us here and
now, binding up the wounded, comforting the sick, caring for the poor, standing
up for justice. At the same time, the world is… well, brown and gray and
depressing, if you look around at it with the skeptical and perfectly
reasonable eyes of a human being. It’s like the spring I was so sure I’d see
everywhere today—blooming in the tiniest details, hidden for now from
the bigger picture.
Already and not yet: I don’t quite know what this means
except that I am called to wait in hope. And wait I will, until the dormant
Alleluias bloom again at the resurrection dawn, even as they blossom now.
Three nights ago I left work at my church around 9:00 pm and
stepped into a night alive with sound. St. Paul sits at the edge of a wetland,
and the peepers—tiny frogs—were singing. Their overlapping voices filled the
air with a sound like bells. Where I grew up in western Massachusetts, peepers
are the surest sign of spring. May I remember the promise their silvery voices
bring: already and not yet, spring is here.
