Same Song, Different Key

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The unexpected snowfall that added a thick layer of fancy white frosting to our backyard mud pies at the end of last week delivered a dollop of discouragement to my springtime dreamers. The same brown-haired boy who had squealed in delight when December’s first stream of crystals danced just beyond the window stood on Friday with sagging shoulders and eyed winter’s repeat waltz with a moan.

“I thought it was springtime,” he cried. Earnest green eyes scanned the yard: “What happened to all the dirt?” My small farmer stomped his pj-clad feet and slumped to the floor where he began to kick and flail like a distraught toddler clutching a forbidden lollipop in the grocery check out line.

Inwardly, I threw a tantrum to rival his drama. Discontent hunched in the corners of my mind and staked its territory with grumbles and groans. What are we going to do inside all day? Why did my husband land a job in a place where winter lingers long? I’m so sick of Candyland and jigsaw puzzles. I can’t bear one more day crammed in the reading chair with restless bodies and the twelve same books we read yesterday and the day before that.

My crabby reverie was interrupted by Hannah’s sleepy approach. Still clinging to her favorite teddy bear, her eyes narrowed as she surveyed the morning scene. “Why is he fussing already?” she asked, head nodding toward the grumpy preschooler imitating sporadic swim moves on the carpet.

“I want my mud puddle back,” Josh wailed, knuckles pounding on the window that framed his loss.

Hannah bent down on all fours and gingerly placed a hand on her distraught brother’s skinny shoulders. “Josh,” she cooed, “We knew that our mud puddles wouldn’t last forever. That’s why we enjoyed them so much while they were here.”

His tear-streaked face turned toward hers. “But when will spring be here for real?”

I pondered my young daughter’s wisdom. One week ago we had savored the unorthodox spring weather because we’d known it wouldn’t last. We had sucked each day to the marrow–patted mud pies, splashed in puddles, caught the breeze on our bikes. We had opened our windows and invited fresh air to twirl through each room and leave invisible footprints of hope: spring is coming; spring is coming.  

So what about today-this gift of now laced in brilliant white- would I seize this day of frost and ice if I believed it were winter’s last? Would I hold the little bodies crammed on my lap longer and read the same twelve books one more time if I knew that tomorrow we would trade books for buckets of sand? Would I line the kitchen table with board games and savor the laughter, the simple play if I knew that tomorrow Candyland would slip into hibernation and our yard games would take its place?  

 I peered again at the crystal cap pulled snugly over the earth’s brown head, and I noticed this time that it was bejeweled with a thousand beams of sunlight. Suddenly my own disappointment seemed like blatant ingratitude.

If last week’s poke-a-dot parka of mud puddles could inspire a happy tune of  wonder, then surely a star-studded sarong of crystals could illicit the same melody today.

“I will be filled with joy because of you. I will sing praises to your name, O Most High.” – Psalm 9:2