Spring is compressed in central Illinois this year. Usually the redbud, dogwood, and crab tree blooms are separated by a week or two. This year, however, everything is blooming together. In the backyard, the weeping cherry waves it
s pink blossoms. On my morning walks, I stop to smell the viburnums at the library. Last night, biking back from dinner with friends, the crabs perfumed the air. Bluebells dress the pasture out at Homer Lake. Unlike some years when they turn brown from an untimely freeze, tulip magnolias have bloomed and are spreading pink petals at their feet.
This winter awakening reminds me of an April a few years ago in Washington, D.C.. The tulips painted the ground with reds and yellows around the monuments while the crabs, dogwoods, and redbuds stood in full-dress guard. Another spring we caught the cherry trees around the Tidal Basin. We walked to the Jefferson Memorial as the pink blooms fell at our feet. And once, a very long time ago, the wisteria across the front of the National Gallery was in bloom. Magnificent green and purple against the white marble.
Every spring is different. Sometimes I’m in a different place. Sometimes the sequence of reawakening life is spread out or interrupted. But so far, spring has arrived. Every year.
Just like God promised in the beginning: “While the earth remaineth, seedtime and harvest, and cold and heat, and summer and winter, and day and night shall not cease.” Genesis 8:22.
Father, you are a God who keeps his promises. Thank you.