I’ve been working against a deadline.
On Monday I will have completed another year of life. 42 of them so far. Another circle around the sun. Another cycle of life. Another end. Another beginning.
It has not been lost on me that the day falls immediately after Easter this year. It did the same 11 years ago when I was cradling a week-old baby in Sunday services. How fresh a resurrection message falls on days like these.
Emerging from Darkness. New Life. A Birth Day.
In preparation for such a day – especially against the backdrop of Lent – I could not help but think on the need for some dying in my life. On the giving up. The letting go.
What needed to die to make room for new life?
What was I not willing to carry forward into my 43rd year?
Where was my surrender less than everything?
I often do my best work against a deadline.
But the frost on budding trees tells me this. Sometimes Spring comes reluctantly.
It comes in fits and spurts. It comes in fully blooming pear trees outside the tightly closed windows where the furnace has turned back on. It comes in pollen-covered sidewalks traversed by coat-covered people.
Spring does not bow to a deadline. Awakening comes in its own time.
I, too, am coming reluctantly to the turning of a page. As glorious is the spring, the winter lingers still.
There is more dying to be done.
There will be celebration over the coming days. Family. Easter. Birthday.
There will be warm days and deep laughter and lots and lots of life.
There will be Spring.
But deep at the roots – where the darkness never eases – it is the breaking open that lives on still.
There is no deadline on that.