Goodbye, winter

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:
(Ecclesiastes 3:1)

I have never been much of a winter lover. I grew up in the northeast, and while I tolerated a good snowstorm and sledding on the Brielle golf course, I much preferred sunshine and 80°on the beach. I struggle with the lack of daylight and the cold makes me hurt, more now that I’m 62 and have arthritis in my neck. I don’t know how people live in Alaska. My friend Elizabeth, who actually lives there, said just the other day, “Snow is not magical on March 27 like it is on December 25.” I would agree with that lack of magic.

But I am trying to pay attention and slow down enough to reflect on the seasons in my life, both literal and figurative, to hopefully take a few lessons with me into the next ones. Now that spring is officially here, I’ve decided on three things I can carry into the new season.

1. Photos are better than memories.

Mostly I think this because my memory is not what it used to be. I’ve spent a lot of time in the last months scanning old slides I found in a closet of my parents’ home. Then there are boxes—the size a ream of paper comes in—of photos, many from before I was born. There is an entire box labeled “Pictures from Aunt Carrie’s house.” Aunt Carrie was my grandfather’s sister, who I sort of remember, but not well. Every time I go to Mom and Daddy’s house I look at another handful of photos and take a deeper dive into my heritage. I’ve known for years my grandfather was at one time a dairy farmer, but the cows were long gone before I was born. Then I came across this, one of the very few pictures we’ve found that proves it.

Milking his Brown Swiss cows

I’ve already shared a lot of photos of my daddy, but this one is precious. It’s how I will always remember him. His loss leaves an enormous hole in our family.

Daddy was so good about taking pictures at every event, every family get-together, every camping trip, graduation, birthday. It can seem overwhelming, but I am thankful to have all this evidence of a life well lived.

So yes, be present in the moment, but take a few pictures too. Someday you—or someone else—will be glad to have them.

2. Flying is for the birds.

One of the things we learned in this last season is that I cannot fly anymore. The panic is worse each time, and we cannot put me on a plane again, at least not for the foreseeable future. One of the ways we can take the sting out of this is to say, “for now.”

It is sad on a lot of levels. We’ve already canceled upcoming trips and I am trying to come to terms with this new normal I already hate. But I remind myself, it’s for now.

But, God bless Facebook memories, seven years ago this week I posted this meme, long before I knew how hard it was going to be to let go of the life I thought I would have:

It’s easy to post a pre-made meme, so much harder to put it into practice. My spirit holds a mixture of grief for what I’ve lost, thankfulness for my husband who loves me enough to protect me from what I would put myself through for his sake, and hope for the future we can still have because we have each other and God. But always with a twinge of sadness.

And yet we make plans, ones that don’t include air travel, for now. God is good and as our friends Tom and Karen always remind us, he is with us. Amen.

3. Old things are made new.

This theme of renewal, rebirth, repurposing kept coming up all winter long. I read an article a few months ago about finding old containers around the farm and using them as garden beds (I would link it here but I can’t find it now), and I think Ben is sick of me stealing his stuff to grow vegetables in. So far I have three cracked water tanks that are growing onions and garlic. He cut the tops off two of them and I will fill those tops with dirt too and plant things that don’t have deep roots in them.

Garlic sprouting mid-winter

Garlic fascinates me. Put cloves in the ground in November and they sprout in the coldest part of the year, all green and happy like they love that miserable weather. It’s more than blooming where they’re planted. It’s blooming where and when they’re planted, and isn’t that just a great lesson for me?

One day we were driving past the farm and I looked out in the field and asked, “Is that feed bunk still usable?” (It is.) Then another day I asked about an old wagon we found buried in brush when we first moved here. The bull was using it to scratch his head on. The floorboards are mostly rotted out, and there are thick branches of something growing up through the bottom of it, but it’s it the greatest? I can’t wait to plant flowers and herbs in it!

We like to find old things and make them new because we are made in God’s image. It’s an act of creativity that brings deep satisfaction, just like when he finds old, filthy us and makes us brand new.

When the kids and grandkids were here for Daddy’s memorial, the three older grandsons spent a lot of time playing outside. We found out after they left that they are getting pretty good at carving. One of them made a knife:

It made me smile that he used a new knife to carve an old-looking one, and that’s the one he played with. The old knife is the one he preferred. And, wow, aren’t we coming across a lot of lessons? We have new things but we long for old things. This is the same theme I picked up from Solomon’s words in Ecclesiastes. All the new doesn’t satisfy us.

Sunrise over the cows

This last winter was harder than any I can remember. It felt like a marathon of loss and grief and overwork and sadness and exhaustion.

But as he always does, God makes all things new. His mercies are new every morning, even the dark, cold, dreary ones. He does not leave us alone in the dark; he stays with us through it. And then he brings the Light, a reminder of his faithfulness no matter what we are walking through.

All things made new. I’m taking that with me into this next season.