You have been born anew, not of perishable but of imperishable seed,
through the living and enduring word of God.
1 Peter 1:23
Dear friends,
As I write this the daffodils are sprouting up and beginning to take life, despite the snow that remains in my front yard. Their fragile green stalks sway in the cold early spring breeze and seem to illustrate perfectly the concept of new life. Just a few weeks ago, the ground was grey and frozen. Now hints of bright spring green colors are breaking through.
And that’s the eternal message of this season, theologically and spiritually, isn’t it? Life and love will always triumph, God’s promise of hope never dies, and through God’s love, renewal and rebirth are possible…always.
In the context of a dark and dangerous world, it’s a lot to get your mind around.
I wonder if it’s best to start with the seemingly small things in our lives. Small moments when love and grace made a difference and brought us back to life in some way. Like the time a patient teacher helped us learn from a mistake. When a loved one was healed from a serious illness. When we were forgiven and a relationship was made stronger. Or maybe it was when our trust was tested and we managed to choose love over fear or anger, finding our own way to forgiveness. Perhaps we can point to a life-changing experience—something that challenged our long-held conceptions and expanded our minds and hearts to an entirely new view.
That’s what God’s love can do. That’s the power of new life we speak about, sing about and celebrate at Easter. The resurrection story is one of triumph over fear and death, however and whenever that darkness is present in our lives. The story of Easter tells us that Jesus’ message of love and sacrifice could not be stamped out. Even in the darkest circumstances, the truth and power of love still lives and can make a difference, and that’s tremendous cause for celebration!
Let’s celebrate this Eastertide because we know what love does, a powerful force for life like the warmth of the spring sun.
Blessings for spring, Karen Nell
Yet all precedent is on my side:
I know that winter death has never tried
The earth but it has failed: the snow may heap
In long storms an undrafted four feet deep
As measured against maple, birch, and oak,
It cannot check the peeper’s silver croak;
And I shall see the snow all go downhill
In water of a slender April rill
That flashes tail through last year’s withered brake
And dead weeds, like a disappearing snake.
Nothing will be left white but here a birch,
And there a clump of houses and a church.