Today is one of those necessary ugly days of transition from winter to spring in the North Country: rain and snow mixed in chilled air just above freezing and covered over by deep and dark overcast.  At ground level it’s not much better.  There almost everything comes in shades of brown and gray—with only evergreens providing somewhat somber visual relief.  I believe it was Walt Whitman who described such conditions with the right word: cheerless.

Such cheerlessness is further intensified as you travel the spring roads.  Car-slain deer carcasses not long ago hidden beneath shrouds of white are thrusting up their broken ribs as flags for carrion-hungry crows, ravens, and vultures.  Added to this are the scattered bodies of raccoons, opossum, skunks, and other creatures that have never gained understanding, as have the crows and ravens, of the physics of speeding automobiles.  Coming home from my ailing sister’s bedside last Sunday, we saw the crushed forms of three skunks in less than one country mile.

My old orchard is still brown and gray as well, with here and there a few bright spots of brilliant red provided by clusters of high bush cranberries shriveled and ready to be pushed off their stems by the pressure of sap called up from the roots by increased sunlight and warmth.  Because of the normal early spring drabness of the orchard, my eyes were captured the other day by a spot of shocking yellow.  Another bit of litter must have been blown into this little patch of wild that I treasure; so I walked over to remove the offense—and was blessed to discover what I had not seen there before: a cluster of crocuses. They looked like a tiny chunk of sun fallen through the clouds to remind me of the glory of rebirth soon to fill this spot.

As the first blooms of spring, crocuses are hope flowers.  They symbolize that wonderful passage from Romans 8.

I consider that our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us. The creation waits in eager expectation for the sons of God to be revealed. For the creation was subjected to frustration, not by its own choice, but by the will of the one who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be liberated from its bondage to decay and brought into the glorious freedom of the children of God. We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the firstfruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption as sons, the redemption of our bodies.  For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what he already has? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently.  In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express.  And he who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints in accordance with God’s will.  And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose (Romans 8:18-28).

I highlighted two important recurring words in this passage: hope and groan.  This is the wonder of the “whole Gospel.”  Nature groans in its present circumstances—groaning often caused by mankind.  We groan too—in pain and in the realization that until Jesus returns, we will suffer unto death.  And the Holy Spirit groans.

Understandable isn’t it.  What we know from the second verse in the Bible is that the Spirit is the One who oversees and provides life.  Life is the Spirit’s everlasting work.  Yet on this earth now, the Spirit hovers over death in all its forms.  So the Spirit groans with and for us in our pain and our dying.  And I believe the Spirit groans with the suffering of creation—suffering set before our own eyes almost daily in the form of crushed roadkill.

Yet within this cheerless setting is the bright Sonlight of hope: the wonderful realization that the pain of nature is not meaningless pain.  Creation’s pain is pregnant pain! At its completion comes both birth and rebirth.

So for the present follower of Christ and all who will come to know Him in the future, there is not one dismal and cheerless day that will not have a crocus of hope in it.  Our suffering will cease, not only with our soul’s eventual flight to the arms of Jesus, but also when our bodies are reunited with our souls and we again experience wonderful material life from the Spirit and share it in inexpressible joy with the reborn, refreshed, renewed creation that now groans—yet groans always in hope.

See you outdoors!

Dean