Conversation Point

In This Moment

Spring Is When You See Pavement

Growing up in Wisconsin has blessed me with an appreciation for many things. The Green Bay Packers offered lessons in football, loyalty in struggles, and joyful gratitude in triumph. Our license plates still read, "America's Dairyland," conjuring up sweet memories of the best ice cream in the world. Lake Michigan stretches as far as the eye can see, welcoming dreams to soar above it and take flight. But the Wisconsin weather taught me more about the balance and fulness of life as part of God's creation than anything else I've ever experienced.

The Door Peninsula, the thumb that sticks up into Lake Michigan, is where my life began. Summer was my first season, gifted with bright sun, crisp blue skies and a gentle breeze referred to as "God's air conditioning" by the locals. The scent of the water surrounding us was as tangible as the soft lapping of its waves were to the easy rhythm of life in rural America in the 1960's. But dramatic thunder storms also blasted through our area frequently enough to keep our attention. Farm reports on the local radio station reminded us town folk that while we were drawn to respect the power of nature's force, others in our extended community were more closely aligned with its fortunes. Orchards and corn fields can only offer their bounty when weather and caretakers share a good working relationship.

Fall came early, leaves deepening in color quickly after we harvested the plums and pears from our own backyard, and and soon after that, returned to school. The mingled aromas of processing apples and fireplace wood smoke lingered among us lazily, as if pondering a distant sight from a front porch swing. Autumn was considered a preparatory time, a time for gathering in summer's bounty in as many ways as possible. Canning fruits and vegetables, preserving jams and jellies, and drying beans were holdovers from pioneer days that still made sense. But we also experienced the local high school homecoming celebration, including a huge bonfire that bound us to each other and to the land itself, allowing us a little more outdoor time before the seclusion of winter.

Wisconsin winters are legendary. Snowstorm on top of snowstorm, ice packed on street surfaces one or two inches thick, and drifts and show piles so high at street corners you cannot see around them or toss anymore snow on top of them. Raw, bitter winds that push below zero temperatures beyond cold. "Bundle up" wasn't a cheery phrase with which to send children out the door for school each day, but a dictate to survive and live by. I learned solid driving skills on that solid ice beneath my car tires. Caution in sneaking into an intersection between snow piles, tap-tap-tapping the brakes to avoid an unnecessary skid, and the deep wisdom of letting the car warm sufficiently, so as not to stall out with a dead battery at the first stop sign a few blocks from home. I also learned to be judicious with time spent outdoors, and mindful of weather that encouraged me to stay home, make due with what we had, and be patient for the passing of the storm.

Easier to understand then, that spring in Wisconsin carries a lot of hope on shoulders crouched against the last vestiges of winter's fierceness. The ground hog may be making a stab at predicting the seasonal transition on February 2, but all that was to me as a child was a very early, very cruel April Fools joke. Spring in my world came much later, usually late March or early April, about the time Holy Week and Easter Sunday rose up on the calendar like tulips struggling to burst forth as a reminder that there is hope. When the sky began to stay lighter longer, when we weren't quite as cold as we ran the last block home after school, when the snow drifts began to sag and shrink, we knew we were almost there.

It is no surprise, then, that even though each season of the year taught me about God's creative, enduring power in the world, as well as God's ongoing, loving care for human beings living in beautiful and extreme circumstances, spring taught me the great lessons of hope and faith. The seasons will continue their rhythm as God's promise, just as they have done for more years than we know. But another constant will also remain for the hardy souls of Wisconsin. Days will lengthen, snow will melt, but spring is when you see pavement.

Until next time, God's blessings.

posted by Cory L. Kemp @ 7:17 PM