spring

It’s not my favorite chore. But then, none of them is. I’d just as soon take a long walk with the Lovely Lady, or sit and nap in my easy chair. Still, time spent outside with the two black labs is never dull.

One friend reminds me that this is hero’s work, cleaning up after the family pets. His little girl says it is, so it must be true.

Hero’s work. Yeah, right.

Well, someone’s got to do it. I had made my rounds and was just finishing up on this beautiful early March afternoon when I heard it. The traffic noises had dwindled down to nothing and the dogs were off dozing in the sun, so there were no other distractions besides the cardinals and the finches.

I stood for a moment and listened. The tall pear tree above my head was buzzing. It’s not normal for trees to buzz, I know. Trees creak. They howl as the wind blows past their branches. Once in a while, they crash down as the storms toss and tear at them.

Trees don’t buzz.

But this one was. The ancient tree, most of it past the age when it will ever bear any edible fruit, already is covered — absolutely covered — with beautiful white blossoms. Even though the subfreezing nights will return again before the calendar says spring is really here, today there are buds everywhere.

The bees don’t know any better. They are swarming the blossoms, virtually swimming in pollen, some of which they will share with other trees, and some of which they will selfishly keep for their own purposes.

It’s a fair trade.

Can I tell you something? I just stood and listened to the bees today with joy in my soul.

Why joy, you wonder? Well yes. It could be that I love spring, while I do not love the season which precedes it. That could have something to do with it. But the real reason, at the heart of things, is Winnie.

You know. Pooh.

Winnie-the-Pooh.

That buzzing-noise means something. You don’t get a buzzing-noise like that, just buzzing and buzzing, without its meaning something. If there’s a buzzing-noise, somebody’s making a buzzing-noise, and the only reason for making a buzzing-noise that I know of is because you’re a bee.
(from Winnie the Pooh, by A. A. Milne)

Child-like joy.

The reminder of kinder, quieter days — when one stood under trees to listen to bees, or gazed over fences at the cattle on the other side, or skipped rocks across ponds just for the pure delight of it.

It has been a hard winter. Oh, I’m not talking about the weather. By that standard, the winter has been mild.

But, I will attest that winter has gripped my heart in its cold, gray grasp for too many months. The deaths of family members and illnesses that wouldn’t relent for anything have frozen me in place for much too long.

The bees tell me the world is turning to a new spring. My walk this afternoon did too, in a different sense.

I happened past the school nearby as the students were released for the day. Striding along the sidewalks, I was soon shoulder-to-shoulder with several of the rowdy eleven and twelve-year-olds. Talking with and shoving each other as they headed home, they moved a bit slower than this sixty-something-year-old man.

Until I tried to pass them.

One boy had squeezed through a gap between two others as he tried to catch up with his friends, so I attempted to do the same, saying, “I’ll just slide between you, too.”

“Oh, no you won’t!” one of them retorted.

The boys didn’t really even look at me as I moved between them, but they both sped up immediately, matching my pace. Side-by-side for the rest of the way through the housing complex and past the Boys and Girls Club, we walk-raced.

I was ahead for a second or two, and then one or both of them would push past me, laughing and talking smack all the while. We reached the point at which we would part company at about the same time, but I conceded the race to them.

The smaller boy left me with these words of wisdom:

“Yeah. I think we really blew you away.”

Joy. Spring is coming. It is.

Old men get older. Young folks blow them away, in so many ways. And that’s as it should be.

Returning home a little later, I invited the Lovely Lady to come stand under the pear tree with me. I wonder if the neighbors were laughing at us. It doesn’t matter. We stood there with smiles on our faces as we listened to the sound of spring approaching.

After supper, I was sitting wrapped in thought when I heard a message come in on my phone. A young man I’ve known since he was three or four had sent a note to thank me for things I don’t remember doing. He talked of example and friendship and teaching, mentioning attributes I wouldn’t have assigned to myself. As I read, I again felt new life being breathed into my spirit.

Some days, when we least expect it, joy explodes again and again, painting the backdrops in greens, yellows, and bright blues.

For a moment, I thought I heard buzzing again. Spring is about new life, blossoming fresh and clean.

It seems I always feel the need to find a spiritual application to these little experiences I write about. There is always something to learn.

God is faithful to keep His promises. Spring will always come.

But, you already know that.

The joy of His extras, though — That’s just fuel enough to get us through the cold, gray days still to come.

Time to store up some honey.

Or, something even sweeter.

Pleasant words are like a honeycomb,
sweet to the soul and healing to the bones.
(Proverbs 16:24, NET Bible)

The year‘s at the spring,
And day‘s at the morn;
Morning‘s at seven;
The hill-side‘s dew-pearl’d;
The lark‘s on the wing;
The snail‘s on the thorn;
God‘s in His heaven —
All‘s right with the world!
(from Pippa’s Song, by Robert Browning)

The birthplace of Christianity was the tomb. The birthplace of splendor is desolation. Spring is conceived in the dark womb of Winter. And light is inevitably the offspring of darkness. All this present heaviness of night is surely but the prelude to a better dawn. The voice of God and the voice of Nature proclaim that the best is yet to be—always, the best is yet to be.
(Robert Cromie)

There is an unseen current of distress which I sense in much of my interaction with folks these days. From my friends who use their understanding of the Bible to prop up their dim view of the future of civilization, to those who see the changing political landscape in our country—indeed, in the world—as proof of our impending calamity, there is an air of certainty and of finality.

I myself, and no time more than when I sit down to write, have of late been overcome by the melancholy sense of things which have passed beyond recall. Friends are missing from my life—friends who were here just moments ago. Family members have disappeared—people I loved and who loved me—never to be encountered again while I breathe this air.

All is dark. The end will soon be upon us all.

But, is it? Will it?

I cannot begin to count the number of times in my lifetime I have heard folks predict the ending of this world. From the same Bible I read and believe, they have found proof of days and seasons, and some, even times. But, again and again, the day, the season, and yes, even the time has passed and life continues here on this spinning ball.

I do not wish to discount the prophecies cited, but I am skeptical of the ability of any living man to successfully render an accurate reading of passing events with hopes of naming the day or even the season in which the end will come.

It seems to me that it is not our purpose in this life to look to the ending of time, but to work while we still have it on our side.

But, I have a different purpose here, a purpose not tied up in prophecy or politics. The writer of Hebrews suggests we have a responsibility to encourage each other. He says it is even more imperative as we see the end approaching. Even more.

Encourage, verb: Give support, confidence, or hope, to (someone).

I’m ready to be done with the doom and gloom, to move out from under the cloud of defeat and into the light of victory. That said, it seems we start from a position of disadvantage. It is dark and cold here in the real world.

In this dark world, where is the light of day to be found?

If you noticed the painting above, you may have had the passing thought: how sweet—a little girl looking at a songbird.

You would be partially right. There is a little girl. There is even a songbird. You would also be partially wrong.

She is not looking at the bird. The artist’s daughter, the subject of this touching tableau, is completely blind.

The world in which the little girl grew up and lived was permanently dark. It didn’t stop her from hearing the song of the robin and knowing winter could not last forever. The barren ground would explode with grasses and flowers; the trees would burst forth into bloom, filling the air with the aroma of their buds. In the heart of that little girl, who would never see Spring, the glory of that blessed season was already bursting forth.

Spring is conceived in the dark womb of Winter.

I refuse to live in the dark of night, when all about me is the orange of the sunrise. I cannot remain in the black grip of sadness, when the joy promised in the morning is already at hand.

Do you hear the robin’s song too? Are you ready to head out in the early blush of dawn on a road that leads to a noonday bright?

It is not so dark here. Maybe we could travel together a while.

The voice of God and the voice of Nature proclaim that the best is yet to be—always, the best is yet to be.

For the darkness shall turn to dawning,
And the dawning to noonday bright.
And Christ’s great kingdom shall come on earth,
The kingdom of love and light.
(from We’ve a Story to Tell to the Nations ~ H Ernest Nichol ~1862-1928)

Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.
(John 14:27 ~ NIV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

The Pear Tree is Buzzing

Noonday Bright