This morning, I hustled out the door to get the kids in the van. I didn’t have my gloves on. I mean, it’s March. I’m sick of coats and gloves and all things winter-wear.
Except scarves. I’ll never be sick of scarves.
I turned over the ignition of my van. Felt the steering wheel. Yowch! It was cold. TOO cold.
“Mom! Look at how cold it is!” My children love to point out the temperature.
I know. I know. Canadians scoff at my shivers. They giggle (very politely) at my wimpy cries of it being too cold.
I grumped silently. It’s stinkin’ March. MARCH! Come on! Warm up already!
At this moment, I have serious doubts that Spring will come. Ever.
I’ve been in this place before. Not always literally. But I’ve been here.
Life can be one tough booger sometimes. We experience loss and rejection. We suffer anxiety or depression or just down right frustration. We get defeated. War breaks out. Evil prevails (at least it seems to). Hate crushes us.
That, my friends, all of that, is the making of a terrible winter of the soul. And in those winters, spring seems impossible.
But it always comes. Little bit by little bit. The sun shines, warm on your face. A friend writes a letter or brings over a meal. A baby is born. Is there anything more healing than new life? A relationship is mended. Good takes the battle.
Spring arrives. It thaws the frozen heart.
That’s not to say that it fixes everything. Or that the pain is entirely gone. But it brings with it the hope of warmth, flowers, brilliance.
On the cover page of My Mother’s Chamomile, I quoted Jeff Manion, the teaching pastor of my church.
(Jeff Manion from the sermon “Comfort Spills” preached at Ada Bible Church)
Morning comes. Spring comes. Healing does too. The snow of disappointment and the freeze of hurt will melt.
Joy will remain.