season change

I guess we're in a season of resurrection.  

Seasons of the soul aren't as predictable as the seasons of a year.  The planet wheeled many times around its axis before the dying stopped.  So much loss.  I didn't think we could endure another breaking.  When I think about that time now, it seems white and thin, like the stretching of a rubber band to its limit.  Those are the times when all your prayers begin, "How long, Lord?" and the psalms become astonishing in their fellowship, but still you are not much more than a sack of bones and sadness, anger if you're lucky.  

I like to think we endured to the end, but perhaps it was just mercy that God lifted His hand.  The thaw was quick and sudden.  You might have seen us all at once, wet and gasping, shivering with our uncovered heads.   If it sounds like shock, it was.  We'd convinced ourselves that we were Job-kin, made only for potsherds and ashes and a faith that somehow clung.  

We go to church now.  A little evangelical church in the last place I expected (and that is a story laced with such improbable intervention, divine planning, and healing that there is no way to adequately tell it.)  On Sunday the pastor said, with his voice breaking and what he could bear of the world's injustice behind it, "Then Jesus enters the world and starts undoing."  

I always think of God as an initiator, a maker, the creator ex nihilo.  And He is.  But He's also a redeemer. There's something about resurrection that is an undoing, a kind of backwards creating.  All at once we are undying, unburied, uncovered, unbroken, unforsaken, swept back to Eden to the place where God saw us and we are good.  Good enough for mending, for resurrection.  

One of the first indications of the resurrection for me was a Mary Oliver poem (which came my way through a gift from my friend, Ann, thank you.)  

This section in particular:


I felt my own leaves giving up and 

falling. The back of the hand to

everything. But listen now to what happened

to the actual trees;

toward the end of that summer they

pushed new leaves from their stubbed limbs.

It was the wrong season, yes,

but they couldn't stop.  They

looked like telephone poles and didn't

care.  And after the leaves came

blossoms.  For some things

there are no wrong seasons.

Which is what I dream of for me.

~ Hurricane, Mary Oliver


Which is what I dream of, my friends,  for all of us.