Spring's Renewal

Spring arrived quietly.

There was no dramatic moment, no sudden explosion of life. Just one morning, Patricia noticed something small: a hint of green on one of Claire's branches. Then another. Then, within days, tiny leaves began to emerge all along the skeletal limbs that had been bare for months.

We stood in the yard and wept.

It wasn't just that Claire was alive. It was that she was more alive than she'd been before. The leaves that came back were richer, fuller, more vibrant. And the orchids came back in greater abundance and more stunning beauty than they'd ever been in that cramped five-foot space.

All that winter. All that waiting. All that barrenness. It had been preparation, not punishment. The dormancy hadn't been death. It had been transformation.

This is the season that makes sense of everything that came before.

"Weeping may stay for the night, but rejoicing comes in the morning." (Psalm 30:5) The psalmist knew that sorrow has a season, but it's not the final season. Morning comes. Light returns. And with it comes a joy that's deeper because it's been earned through the waiting.

"Christ, being raised from the dead, dies no more. Death no longer has dominion over him." (Romans 6:9) This is the promise at the heart of everything. Death is not the end. Dormancy is not death. The grave could not hold Christ, and the winter could not hold Claire. Life returns.

"Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new." (2 Corinthians 5:17) When Claire emerged in spring, she wasn't just returning to what she'd been. She was becoming something new. The old version of Claire—smaller, more restricted—had passed away. What emerged was transformed.

This is what resurrection means. Not going back to the way things were. But becoming new. Becoming more fully yourself than you ever were before.

"But thanks be to God, who gives us the victory through our Lord Jesus Christ." (1 Corinthians 15:57) The victory isn't that we avoid loss. It's that we pass through loss and come out transformed on the other side.

And there's a hymn that captures this mystery, this movement from sorrow to joy:

"When peace, like a river, attendeth my way, when sorrows like sea billows roll; whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say, 'It is well, it is well with my soul.'"

This isn't denying the sorrow. It's saying: even in the midst of difficulty, there is a peace that passes understanding.

And then:

"I know that my Redeemer lives; what comfort this sweet sentence gives! He lives, He lives, who once was dead; He lives, my ever-living Head."

Not "I hope my Redeemer lives." But "I know." Certainty born from experience, from having seen death give way to life, from having witnessed resurrection.

This is what spring teaches us. Resurrection is real. Renewal is real. The God who brings life out of death, growth out of dormancy, beauty out of barrenness—He is real.

"So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand." (Isaiah 41:10) This promise was true in the winter. But in the spring, we finally feel it.

Maybe you're entering your spring right now. Hold onto this: What emerges will be more beautiful than what was lost. Not because loss is good. But because God is faithful.

It is well. It is well with your soul.