A week of warm weather. Snow melting. Rain falling.
For a few weeks now it will be mud season,
as sure a sign of spring as the first crocus,
the greening buds on the lilacs,
only not as perfect.
It would be easy to believe it is another season of death.
Brown and lifeless. Fields drowning
in a surplus of water, overwhelmed by the end of ice,
to much to absorb.
But it is not the end. It is the beginning.
Good Friday to Easter. One last sputter
of winter before life finds it’s traction again,
before green, before colors emerge.
One last grasp, and if you can hold on
just a short time longer, spring rises from the muck.
Emergence is sometimes like that.
Worse. Messier. Muddier before it gets better.
Your own life is testimony to the messy origins of spring.
Your own mud season a long one, years in the making,
years in the emerging, a product more of persistence and grace,
and the power of God’s cycles than any wisdom.
But then again, perhaps persistence is its own wisdom,
a thing less dependent on will than faith,
a thing that saves us from ourselves
more times than you can count.
About this poem.
I don’t know if life has made me wise. But I do have a persistent faith that is smarter than I am. Stronger too. It has served me well.
It is mud season in Vermont, our short season of melting and rain between Winter and Spring. The picture was taken of a field just down the road.
For Non-Christians, Palm Sunday is the day Jesus entered Jerusalem, crowds cheering him, waving palms and shouting “Hosanna! Bless is he who comes in the name of the Lord.” A week later he was crucified and killed on a cross, on what has become known as Good Friday.