Scraping at the Sky

Where I live, Lent arrives before winter has had her last words with us. The sun still comes up too late and goes down too soon; the frigid air still makes your bones feel brittle; the ground beneath your feet still seems unyielding and lifeless. We notice any sign of hope, like like a returning bird or an ambitious crocus.

Whatever its shortcomings, this climate offers abundant symbols appropriate to the spirit of Lent. And some years, the first spring day and Easter arrive as though coordinated down to the last hour. Of course, it doesn't always work this way: I have sat through any number of Easter sermons about the wonders of rebirth while the snow blew past the church--one of the advantages of stained-glass windows, I suppose. But, in general, the gradual arrival of light and retreat of darkness marks this season in a way that aligns nicely with the processes of our hearts.

If you're paying attention, other--perhaps less cliched--images may strike you as suggestive in meaning as well. So, for example, the other day I couldn't help but notice the upper limbs of the trees surrounding our house. They're leafless this time of year, scraggly, a confused clutter of frozen striving.

But if you look closely a pattern emerges. All of these branches have an upward inclination--no matter how slight. They all stretch and reach toward something higher. They all scrape at the sky, as if they were trying to tear the smallest hole, to get a look inside, to wake back up.

Amen.