I don't like being cold. I used to be hot-natured, back when I was a kid, back before I lost weight. I used to think that being cold was better than being hot, because I could always put on more layers. But then one day I felt the cold, and it bit down into me, soaked through my skin, seeped down into my bones. It wanted to freeze me, to take all my heat until I was as cold as it was, to make me like it was. A sweater couldn't banish it. All I could do is huddle up underneath my blankets and hide from it, until the ferocious beast of cold gave up. For a while.
I'm sitting here at the last edge of winter. The sky is pale and white, as if snow decided to cover the blue instead of the green. The trees are still, but not completely. They are ever so gently swaying.
It's an expectant sort of day.
It seems as if all creation is holding its breath, as if to say, "Spring is coming. Life is coming. Renewal is coming. Wait. Wait. Wait. Be ready. Wait. The time to grow, the time to move is coming. Wait."
And I'm sitting here with a blanket, but not completely covered. I'm letting the cold wash over me, allowing it to chill me, but not to freeze me. I want to burst forth into spring, but it's not quite time. Wait. Wait. Winter is still here, but it's fading. It chills, but it can't freeze. It knows its time is nearly over. It knows it can't keep its hold on life.
But for now, I welcome the chill, if only until the end of the season. I let it remind me of times when I was nearly frozen.
But I couldn't let it freeze me. Not when there us so much warmth, so much life.
Jesus died when he was thirty-three. When this entry is posted, I will also be thirty-three. When Jesus was thirty-three, he completed all his earthly work and ministry. Me? I'm vacuuming carpets and watching whiny kids for slightly more than minimum wage, while Kermit the Frog sings "Rainbow Connection" on the TV in the movie center at the drop in center. And I remember being a kid and singing along with Kermit, wondering "what's so amazing that keeps us stargazing, and what do we think we might see?" And I was once a dreamer. And here I am, thirty-three years old and still waiting for those dreams to come true.
And when the icy winter wind blows, it seems to say, "Your dreams won't come true. You will never get away from mediocrity." I want to huddle under the blankets and hide from the cold reality of a cold, cold world that has no use for dreamers. It has little use for those who hope.
But the winter wind can only blow in its season. And the wind is about to change. And if I'm hiding under my blankets, I might miss it. The bare trees aren't hiding. The pale sky isn't hiding. They are watching.
I'm setting aside the desire to shy away from winter's last efforts to freeze.
It is an expectant sort of day.
The spring is coming.
It's almost time to move.
It's almost time to grow.