So, it’s been a while. And I have wanted to write this great post about the symbolism of Spring and Easter, about the daffodils and the tulips pushing their way up through the ground to greet the first days of spring, about the warming earth, about the days lengthening into summer after the equinox. But it just didn’t come.
I blamed my writer’s block on kids, stomach flu. You know, life. And as I was talking to Jen about it, she, as a good committee member should, told me the real truth. “Maybe you haven’t written your spring piece because you just don’t feel like writing about life and regeneration and renewal.” Boom, baby. Truth.
Since Halloween night, I’ve watched my dad waste away to 120 lbs at the hands of chemotherapy. He missed the birth of my second daughter. We’ve missed holidays, birthdays, and just every days. This week he’ll be heading to San Diego for two months to undergo a stem cell transplant. How can I write about Spring, hope, and life, when I’m watching and fearing his death?
But on Easter morning, I had an epiphany. While on Facebook, nonetheless. I was up early with the baby and I felt pretty sorry for myself. I would miss seeing my mom and dad again. Another holiday missed.
I settled down on the couch with my phone and began to read my Facebook news feed. Glennon from Momastery updated her status with the following: “Easter means that nothing is too dead to live again. Underneath the frozen, barren ground a seed is pushing its way toward the light. We can’t see it, but it’s there just the same. Friday comes and we cry. Saturday we wait. Sunday we REJOICE.”
Suddenly I couldn’t stop the tears. NOTHING is too dead to live again. Nothing. In the depths of my sadness, these words were a small pinhole of light. This is the symbolism of Spring. The tip of the equinox means that days are filled with more light and warmth.
Before all of our modern conveniences, Spring’s warmth meant health. It meant that the cows had their nutritious milk. It meant longer days for farming. It meant the return of the crops. All of these things brought the hope of life that winter’s cold stole all too easily.
Perhaps underneath his frozen, barren ground, he is pushing his way toward the light.
We have passed our fall and winter, literally and figuratively. And Friday has come and gone and we have cried. But when those cells are transplanted, they will be his own little Spring tulips and daffodils, pushing their way to the surface. It’s true that we are in the Saturday wait. And waiting sucks. We wait and we pray. But Spring shows us renewal with the return of the sun, and promises us the hope of life.