Just a few weeks ago I noticed that my daffodils were late in blooming this year. Some years they show their yellow grins as early as February. But this year, as if in reverence, as if in observation of what a year it has been, the daffodils here waited until almost mid-March to finally bloom.
There is something about the anticipation of spring, which here in northern hemisphere officially begins this weekend, that is life giving. Every year at about this time I can feel the shift. Maybe you do too. The days are longer. There is a hint of warmth and of green, even on the coldest night.
But the sense that spring is coming can also lull us into complacency. Today it is still winter. The temperature can still drop precipitously. Here on the farm it was only a month ago that we were covered with snow. My daffodils knew what they were doing to wait.
As we approach our second spring of pandemic time, the analogies seem especially obvious and poignant. Yes we feel the air warming, as more people are vaccinated and infection rates are dropping. But we are not there yet.
In this time of speaking and acting out against white supremacy and systemic racism we have seen signs of hope. But with this week’s racist violence in Georgia, and with the incomprehensible denial by some that it was indeed racist violence, we see again how deeply the dominant white narrative is embedded in our story.
In a little over two weeks the Western Church will celebrate Easter. But there is much to face before we get there. There is a Palm Sunday of confrontation and resistance. There are tables to be turned and temples to be cleansed. There are betrayals and denials to endure. There is a cross between now and then.
It does seem we are in a slow spring. But do not fall into the complacency of late winter. Do not grow weary. Do not give up.
Spring may feel late, but it is coming. As it does, may love and justice bloom.