The First Robin of Spring

I was putting laundry away in the girls’ room on Saturday morning when I spied a brazen blotch of orange beyond the window. My heart quickened as I abandoned the towering pile of socks and underwear and turned toward the finger-print -smudged glass. Eagerly, my eyes scanned the landscape.  Had I really seen what I thought I had? Methodically, I studied each inch of the front yard in search of confirmation, a feathery splash of brilliant color amidst the muddy snow splats and tufts of dead brown grass. A hunter of beauty and promise, I stood soundlessly at the window framed by sequin-studded sheers and little girls’ artwork and sought a second glimpse of Spring’s harbinger.

 

Wispy snowflakes swayed in indecision as they fluttered listlessly in the air. Some dropped in resignation upon the barren brown while others seemed to dangle in flight, unwilling to surrender their dance with the gray sky. It didn’t look like spring. In fact, if the crystal white guests settled down for an overnight, our yard would once again resemble a pancake sprinkled haphazardly with powdered sugar. But I had spotted a promise of the green to come; a reminder of a floral feast soon to be served with an extra dallop of sunshine. I breathed deep of the hope that brewed within my soul.

 

A frustrated scream shattered my reverie; frantic feet raced up the stairs. “Maggie took my monster truck! Maggie took my monster truck!” My four-year-old stormed into the room with a cry and a stomp. Close behind waddled a saggy-diapered toddler harboring a smug smile and a red monster truck.

 

“Mine! declared the thief as her white-knuckled fingers maintained a death grip on the stolen treasure. Indignant, her brother lunged for what was rightfully his. A streak of metallic red took flight and crashed with a clunk against the window where I stood.

 

 I turned from the brown outside of my home to the brown within it. I would have preferred an orange streak of wonder. Sometimes a mommy needs a symbolic robin-sighting in the midst of her daily drab. I untangled arms and legs, wiped tears, planted  a repentant toy snatcher in the time-out chair, and prayed for grace. Somewhere beneath the tattle-taling and ugly word-flailing, just below the selfish striving and fumbling forgiveness, Holy hands shape unseen blooms. For now, we plod through winter. But one day, tiny sprouts of love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, gentleness and self-control may push through this barren brown training ground of life and blossom shamelessly beneath the Son. Until then, I will keep my eyes wide open for simple streaks of orange-humble  I love you’s, voluntary apologies, little hands folded in prayer, spontaneous words of grace- all precious portends of spring sent straight from Heaven.