There was another big snow last week. Every twig, every fence, every pine branch was heaped high with frosting. Even the basketball net looked like expensive lace. The whole landscape was a photograph in black and white.
Photo by Angela Kellogg
Well, except there was a tell-tale hint that it might not be a black and white. In the dormant forsythia outside my kitchen window perched an outrageously scarlet cardinal. (No wonder the cardinal is the Indiana state bird!) My photographer friend, Angela, popped in to say she was headed to the creek to take some pictures. She sent back another hint that we were not living in a black and white photo. Two of our white swans were swimming on the silver pond. Their orange bills gave such a splash of color that they looked like they had been photoshopped in!
Photo by Angela Kellogg
The bones of the maples and oaks, willows and sycamores revealed the amazingly beautiful and strong framework that in summer holds the weight of such luxuriant foliage that it would break a weaker structure. Winter tells the whole truth. The cedars and arborvitae that are in summer a dark aggressive green have backed into a more submissive, humble brownish-gray so as not to intrude on the stark drama of winter.
It was time to put on boots and earmuffs and make a few tracks of my own. Such a wonderland deserved a closer look. I found it was too cold for the snow to pack; it was like angel dust, and the slightest gust of wind made the glistening flakes fall again—from the stack piled on every high branch. I passed the northern magnolia and, lo! The tips of each twig had a swollen, velvety bud.
Photo by Angela Kellogg
The maples that from a distance looked so bare, were not bare after all, but held clusters of last year’s seed—helicopters, we used to call them, because the new ones in spring fall spinning like propellers to pierce the loose soil of my gardens, sowing seed for maple and boxelder sprouts everywhere.
Photo by Angela Kellogg
I held the fragile “bare” branches of every tree and shrub as I passed—the lilacs, the forsythia, the pussy willows, the dogwoods. Each branch ended with a small tight bud. Life! Just waiting and poised to respond to the first warming day, to open to the wooing of sunbeams. Even in snow there is the promise of spring.
Photo by Angela Kellogg
I get it. I have discovered that in every dormant season of my soul, in every paused waiting period, there is a subtle moving of something deep in my roots that is pushing its way upward and outward toward a promise. There is a throbbing in the frozen vessels that insists that in spite of the most colorless day, even in the most chilling discouragement, resurrection will not be denied. The strong framework of former growth makes me know that the budding that seems tight and frozen now will burst open with new flower and thick leaves. The trunk and branches of proven faith will hold the weight of glory to come! The roots that have been driven deeper by the frigid days will pump new energy up, up to the very tips of my being. The sun will shine again. The earth will green again. Spring will come, and my heart will sing!
Though the skies be gray above me
And I can't see the light of day;
There's a ray breaking through the shadows
And His smile can't be far away.
Though the earth seems bleak and barren
And the seeds lay brown and dead;
Oh the promise of life throbs within them
And I know spring is just ahead.
Thank God for the promise of springtime;
Once again my heart will sing.
There's a brand new day a-dawning;
Thank God for the promise of spring.
By William J. and Gloria Gaither
© 1973 Hanna Street Music (BMI) (adm. at CapitolCMGPublishing.com) All rights reserved. Used by permission.
