Come away by yourselves to a remote place and rest a while.

                                                           Mark 6:31

Excitement devoured by horror.  A giddy joy of victorious service eclipsed by the terrifying reality of the execution of John.  I imagine them crowded around Jesus, chattering like children, each nudging another aside to step just a little closer, to absorb the validation of his affectionate response, to release their fears to his strength.

The story doesn't record what he might have said to encourage or comfort them.  There are no explanations or reassurances to calm their spirits, he just asks them to come away.  Come away, not go away, suggesting he has every intention of coming along.

 Come away, to a remote place.  Remote, quiet, away from the crowds, away from the demands, away from the angry dissension.   A place to rest.  

What would it be to rest with Jesus?  

In a world that spins faster every day, where the voices never end, and horrors pile like autumn leaves on the constant barrage of news sites, the greatest power might be the strength to stop; to breathe, to focus, to rest a while with Jesus.

I will exalt You, Lord,

because You have lifted me up,

and have not allowed my enemies to triumph over me.

Psalm 30:1

David seems almost giddy in his joy.  I imagine him breathless, eyes darting and heart pounding, nearly in shock it's really over.  There won't be one more battle hidden behind the distant cliff, one more sleepless night of starting at every sound, one more heavy weapon to lift against those he once defended.  "You have lifted me up," he declared, almost floating on the joy and relief of the gift of this day.  

Yet history tells us how fleeting this peace would be.  How long did he really have before reality set in?   There would be the infighting and struggles of establishing a new kingdom, of bringing a battle worn people back into unity, of proving his worth as the chosen of God. 

Didn't he know, in some small corner of his mind, how harsh this new battle would be?  Did it niggle at his joy?  Did he drift from celebration to strategy?  Or did he just revel on the joy of the moment, on his gratitude to God for the gifts of the day?  

I'm far to ready to worry about the future, to fear the inevitable next trial lurking in the mists of my mind, and to forget to bask in the joy of the battle just won.  

                            

 Five days.  From winter's harshest blast of this or any recent year on Monday, to spring gorgeous sunshine on Friday.

I thought those bushes were gone
forever.  They were crushed to about a third of their normal height by the weight of the snow.  I expected bent and broken branches that wouldn't recover all summer.  I expected to have to pull them all out and start over.

But just five days later they're springing back,  as green and strong as if they lived the winter in gentle care in a green house.

Does the pressure make them stronger?  Does the soaking moisture invigorate brittle limbs?  Is it just a spring gift to a hopeless gardener who wasn't going to figure out any way to save them anyway?

I revel in the gift today.  The  gift of recovered shrubs, of the warmth of spring, of sunshine glinting off daffodils just beginning to  bloom.

It feels like break-up, Alaskan style.  The vaporizing snow is sinking almost visibly, shoveled piles dissolving from feet to inches in a single day.  Icy water streams over rocks and streets and sparkles in the sun.  It's not quite warm, but not that cold.

Birds materialize from everywhere. They hop from icy branches to sidewalk to steps.  They mercilessly mock the cat, quivering at the window swishing his tail and chittering in the back of his throat.

It's bike in the shop day.  Summer tune-ups in the midst of the snow.  My fingers are a little stiff and cold fastening it onto the rack.  The strap on one side is broken, so I tug the bungee cord tight to hold it secure.  It feels so good to pull it down and roll it into the shop, to talk with the technician about repairs and trails and rides to come.  Another stop and promised new strap and a season of riding is ready to begin.

March madness blizzards; basketball, white-outs, and a over a foot of snow.  Not quite the spring break I was expecting.  The sun is high and clear all day, but the wind is sharp and soft streaming snow is everywhere.  It's a peaceful day.  I let the cat in and let the cat out as he struggles to understand that nasty stuff on the deck.  He shakes his feet angrily and huddles shivering into a sliver of sunlight, but as soon as I call him back in, he's glaring his open sesame stare right back at the door again.  

After a day of playing with recipes and clearing piles of clutter, I'm relaxed but a little restless and ready to brave the cold for the chance to be out.  The park is quiet, but not quite deserted. A few brave runners, some college students taking fun costume photos, and ducks by the dozens gliding through the icy lake.  My feet are cold and my knees are damp.  I've tramped through soggy mud to reach the waterfall and knelt in the ice for the perfect picture of the setting sun glinting off snow covered trees.  It's a perfect joy of imperfection, of accepting and embracing a change of hopes gifting a beauty unknown.  

It's the first tease of spring; sunshine, warm breezes and seventy degrees. The trail is nearly deserted. Crackly brown leaf strewn and surrounded by skeleton trees, it's leaches winter stress into the wide slow-flowing river.  It's one day gift, a single day off, a single day's hint of warmth to come.  It'll be back to forties tomorrow, I'll be back to work on Monday.  But spring break's just one week away, a hint and a promise of spring itself not too far away.

The Butterfly House

It was 92 degrees in there.  

A sunny glowing mist bath, vibrant with floating, fluttering colors.  

Snow edged tight against the glassy walls, 

where geese perched on the ice covered pond, 

just beyond the touch of the warmth. 

Butterflies,

 endless,

 overwhelming,

 impossible to take in.

  Enchantment in flight, 

 winter doldrums released.