| Sunny Side Up May 14, 2003 copyright, Kathleen Gibson Spring comes galloping One year ago exactly, I tramped down Regina�s main street with my daughter, searching bridal boutiques for her perfect wedding dress. The calendar proclaimed mid-May, but I know November when I see it. Wet snow. Sub-zero temperatures on every hand. Parkas and boots. Horrid. We darted from store to store, brushed off snow at every door. Last week, this note arrived from my friend Elsie Montgomery, in Edmonton: May 6. �This afternoon I had to put on knee-high rubber boots to go out in the backyard and rescue an eight-foot Juniper that had been reduced to a three-foot shrub by the wet snow. The bottom three steps to our elevated deck had so much snow on them they�d nearly lost their definition. It really is odd to see tulips sticking their necks out of snow, ready to bloom and perky besides. They must know something we don�t.� �Doesn�t spring ever come here?� a newcomer to Saskatchewan asked her grandchild, or so I heard. With the unconscious wisdom of all small sages, he answered, �How should I know? I�m only six years old!� The grandma then asked his mother. Tongue firmly in cheek, she replied, �Of course we get spring around here, Mom. Last year it was on a Wednesday!� I tell my friends who live elsewhere that we have only two seasons: Winter and July. The Preacher corrects me every time. �No, we have four seasons: Winter�s coming. Winter. Still winter. Potholes.� I think he�s right, actually. Ah, but we do get spring here. It arrives galloping. I recall one year when on the first of May our lilacs were bare twigs. By mid-June the earliest variety had finished blooming. Spring raises me to my tiptoes. I sniff the air like a curious cat. I crave the smell of barbecuing hotdogs. Sweat under shirt sleeves. Manure being spread on fields. Yes, I long for the heady scent of lilacs too. A few weeks ago, the Preacher and I drove to a valley south of us, where God plays with his new season�s palette. The aspens on the hills blushed my favorite color�that wait-till-you-see-what�s-coming-next green, only seen in nature in these first weeks of spring. I felt delight almost tangibly, as though God had tickled my soul with a feather. Those transparent strokes of green reminded me of something. It�s in winter, working in ways we can�t see, that God prepares us for the miracle of spring. It cannot be otherwise. I think of Elsie�s tulips, bewildered by the late snow, but still blooming. Holding their heads up and cheering grumpy passersby. And I recall her last line� �they must know something we don�t.� Of course. We know it, but we forget�God hasn�t skipped a spring yet. If you�re in the grip of your own personal winter, watch, wait, and place your trust in the Season Maker. Spring may come galloping. You can respond to these words at [email protected] |
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