Last year, there was a stunning spring, and I definitely noticed it. The blossoming and blooming of Capitol Hill is always beautiful, but spending my days working from home made for more walks, more gazing out the window, more noticing.
My office told us we’d begin teleworking. I nodded. “Two weeks at most,” I thought. Two weeks would be nice to be home. A little breather from my normal chaotic job. But it wasn’t two weeks, and from my house I watched spring unfold, but not with the normal ease and pleasure.
It was a mercy that while everything else shuttered up, the blossoms still opened themselves to bring our world color and life. As the two weeks wore on, I began to realize this wouldn’t go away. The normal hustle and bustle of the city slowed to a sudden, abrupt stop. The same words were on everyone’s lips: “the pandemic,” “restrictions,” “case numbers.” But amidst the frenzy, a trip to the grocery store delivered the same mercy to me the spring blossoms offered to our scared and shaky world.
We stood in line to get in because of restrictions. It was eery approaching, seeing the throng of people ahead of you. We all wore masks, unable to see friendly smiles. There was a drawn-out maze throughout the store. Suddenly a simple grocery trip felt like constantly being on the cusp of doing something wrong or breaking a rule.
If I forgot something in produce, there was no back-tracking for it. All of us in the store were anxious. Milk? Bread? Please don’t be out of food. Could I just grab a cart, was that still allowed? I needed kale, milk, eggs, berries. That’s all. Yet out of habit I grabbed a bouquet of peony tulips. The buds were closed at the time, but a dot of pink poking out assured me they’d open up with sunlight. The store manager, affectionately called Mr. T. by the employees, showed crinkled eyes above a mask. “We’ve got plenty, come on in, welcome to the party,” he greeted customers as they walked in. A party in a time like this? A blossoming, beautiful spring in a pandemic? He brought the same color and life as the flowers outside, the life we all needed in the moment. It was a grace in Trader Joe’s.
As spring continued, it felt more like a final deep breath before a plunge. It was a beautiful, colorful spring that would morph into a chaotic, stifling, violent summer, a confused fall, and a dark winter. It was the breath you take standing on the edge before you plunge headlong into the water. You don’t know how long you will be required to hold your breath, so you take in the oxygen while you can. Fill your lungs with the flowers, the birds chirping, the sunshine, the cool breezes, the friendly cashiers. Inhale, hold it.
And this new spring. This glorious, beautiful spring. The cherry blossoms were fragile and lovely. The tulips are bright rainbows of color. The honeysuckles and lilacs waft through spring breezes. I’m noticing this spring too, but it’s hope. Everywhere we are reminded that life returns after winter. Beauty is resilient and will return each spring.
I’m returning to work, but I hope I will keep noticing. I telework in a coffee shop once more. I see an elderly man take a seat near a mom and her young son. The mom mutters to her son, “We’ve been here awhile, we need to give this man his space.” He overhears her. “Oh, I’m fully vaccinated. Don’t leave on account of me,” he says, pulling down the mask, revealing a smile the crinkly eyes had hinted at as he takes a sip of coffee. All three of them seem to breathe a sigh of relief. The mom and son settle back in, and he begins asking the son about his favorite subject. “My grandson is just your age, I think.”
The world is reopening. Now we exhale deeply. It’s the feeling of holding your breath underwater as you break the surface. When you can see the sunlight rippling overhead and you push off the bottom to propel yourself towards it. You want air so badly, your lungs are bursting, and then with a gasp, you break through. A deep breath, taking in all the air. You’ve been holding it in so long, and now the release. The surface has been broken. You can breathe more easily.
Last spring we learned to notice beauty amidst the deep inhales. This year we exhale in relief, for another spring has risen to meet us. I see the flowers bloom and blossom again, as they did last year, and the year before, regardless of what we’ve walked through. I think of Jesus’ words: “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin,” and yet they grow because we have a God of grace. They grow after a hard season, every spring a reminder of a God who gives spring after winter, healing after illness, and hope after despair.
Image credits: Caleb Wright and Andres Herrera.
