But this morning the sun made one of its celebratory cameo appearances - like one of those movie stars who occasionally, unexpectedly opened a window as Batman and Robin scaled the exterior of a building on the old '60's television show. The morning is frigid, but somehow companionable; hospitable, despite the chill. I took in a deep, cleansing breath, surveyed the wide view, and then the nearer one. And that's when I noticed the buds.
The chickens share a 1/3-acre enclosure with a dozen or so fruit trees - apples, pears, pawpaws, persimmons and figs. The trees are juvenile, but even so provide a shady respite beneath the foliage of summer. In recent months they have looked naked and dead, but clearly they have been busy throughout these wintry weeks. Buds now swell at regular intervals throughout the twiggy branches. Countless packages of promise, stirring, preparing, gathering momentum for the sweet possibilities ahead.
It's hard not to smile at the prospects. We are hungry for even a hint of something more flavorful. Nothing, of course, is guaranteed. There is always the threat of harmful insects and disease; and there is much pruning to accomplish between now and then. But it is good to find promissory notes abounding and surrounding - metaphorically as well as literally.
There isn't a lot of good news these days. Culturally - globally - it is a cold winter, indeed. We seem more intent on chopping each other down than encouraging much growth. Th air is poisonous; our interactions are toxic. Everyone seems angry or fearful, or both. We mock, we ridicule, we impute and then impugn one another's motives as if we had clear windows into the soul of others, and we, alone, are righteous. It isn't the stuff of fruitfulness.
Or hope.
We have come to view the essence of evil in the guise of each other. Today is bleak enough that there isn't much incentive to look up and out and beyond.
The buds, however, offer opportunistic distraction. Here and here, there and there they break the surface of apparent death with an eruption of promise. Of course the trees, themselves, afford that hint as well, but it is subtler. They necessarily require a longer view, albeit one that, precisely because of that longer view, I am prone to forget. But the buds, thriving amidst a shorter calendar, foretell a more accessible fruit. I should be able to hang onto the promise of that turnaround - the farmstead, after all, is constantly teaching that lesson in one way or another. Decay is never the final word. Autumn's decline and winter's dormancy are eventually replaced by spring. Even the fetid stench of today's decay signals a transformation into tomorrow's feeding nutrients. I should remember, and trust, and keep pushing forward, but what with the iciness of winter and the acrid smoke of our interactions, I forget.
And then a budding branch catches my attention - like a burning bush - speaking a word of promise. A prophetic word in fact. "I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future" (Jeremiah 29:11).
Hope. And a future.
Buds.
"We can get through this," I think to myself.
And suddenly it's not so cold after all.
