As I walk and watch in my back yard these days,
I remember that Lent means “spring,” and I see it happen before me. The
fall-planted apples are budding—even the scrawny one I thought was dead
and for which I ordered a replacement. The garden peas are coming up,
and the ground is ready for lettuce and spinach.
After worship last Sunday, leaders of the church I serve gathered around a conference table and used springtime language to describe to their bishop the state of the congregation. There was a sense that hope wasn’t an illusion, that healing and growth were real and that the months ahead could be wonderfully busy and productive.
But I’m of mixed mind and heart. The joyful anticipation I experience in my back yard and around that table is muted when I’m in front of the TV or listening to the radio.
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