The promises of spring and Lent appear

Each morning as the kids pile out of the car to embark on the next day of daycare, the ground still crunches beneath their running feet. The frost-tipped grass and lingering chill of the early morning hangs in the air, only to (usually) be dispelled a few hours later as the temperature rises.

Spring is so close – the tulips and hyacinths collecting at the grocery florist department send constant reminders. Yet, the ground tells a different story.

“The bugs came,” said one of my sons as he stumbled out the door and ran to the dormant hydrangeas. “Buds,” I gently corrected, and pointed his attention to the emerging greens of tulips, daffodils, crocuses and muscari (grape hyacinths) in our bulb garden.

Just last week, I remember being concerned that the green tips were still hidden well beneath the surface. Had the squirrels and chipmunks scurried them away in the intervening months?

No, I just needed patience. The promise of spring is in the air: the blinking sunlight, the stretching light at the end of each day, the thawing out.

As we walked along the emerging garden, he singled out the leaves of one of the daffodils. Instead of springing out into the air, this daffodil’s leaves were looped: the tip still buried under ground. I loosened the soil and popped out the tip, helping nature in its process.

These transitional periods between the seasons are often my favorite. In particular, this late winter (if we can even call it that in the South), where I can still enjoy the fruits of the garden before the waves of pollen emerge,  and I’m left indoors, sniffling with burning eyes and asthmatic breaths.

These are the reminders of patience, of the burden of waiting and the pleasure of fulfillment.

These are the same themes that we recognize in our Lenten sacrifices.

The color purple hangs heavy in our faith.

My youngest son was delighted to see the deep purple surrounding the church and the vestments. It’s his favorite color and has been ever since he could distinguish between objects with different hues: purple is where he’s always gravitated. So, now, for Mass, he’s begun to choose his purple pants and purple shirt, matching the liturgical season.

Dressed in purple, surrounded by the burgeoning signs of spring and the Lenten promises in the air, he serves as my own personal symbol: the reminders of the need for patience, of my own waiting periods, and the pleasure that I take in seeing each milestone met, each obstacle overcome as my children learn that they can do hard things.

This Lent – and this spring – I am conscious of the promises the seasons, natural and liturgical, offer us.

In these moments, listening quietly and watching attentively, I am reminded of God’s own promise to be with us always, if only we pay attention and remain open.

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