It is the beginning of March
when soft breezes
should be melting the harshness of the passing season
and yet,
the tundra is as if frozen in time,
a barren place so dreary,
a landscape dressed out of style
in the same black and white outfit,
day after day,
like a worn out winter coat
pleading to be put in the back of the closet,
and salt-caked boots begging to be forgotten.
But while it appears all life devoid,
this long winter is where grace abounds,
no matter how it looks
or how bitterly the winds penetrate.
It is just the hard labor pains
of one season giving birth
to a favored child.
Hope is never bound by a season,
only strengthened by the narrative,
a rhythm that rocks back and forth
through the story God is writing
in individual lives irrevocably
linked together by grace.
How long,
how much longer, O LORD?
The ice crunches underfoot,
and the forecast calls for three inches of more snow,
an ancient beckoning to trust
in that one day closer,
not just to spring
but to the promise of restoration
and the dance of the redeemed.
Strength is knowing what is to come.
This,
this is the picture of God's faithfulness,
not in the tender green joy of spring finally come,
but when it is too cold to breathe,
even now,
He is faithful,
He is faithful,
fingers burning from frost,
hearts aching,
the earth groaning,
yearning for when we all come home.
The remembrance of spring brings us through
that which we cannot bear alone.
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