Joy in winter

It is -10 Fahrenheit outdoors today. Snow crunches underfoot, never melted, ever stiff. The sun shines at an obtuse angle reluctantly warming a thing that is behind glass. Out in the open, there is little the sun can do to change the circumstances. Above ground, lifeless things are frozen. For life to carry on, the fire within must be a dynamo, and must remain protected from the frost.  Even though I have personally put on more insulation in the past few years, my internal dynamism is slower than it once was and I have no courage to remain out of doors without my jacket. Many a Chiefs fan in the playoffs do. But this has little to do with physiologic suitability. Though it convince a man he needs no jacket, ethanol is not a solution for the cold. 

Wondering at the solidness of the cold, and grateful for a warm fireplace, my children, my wife and I spent a great part of the day looking out the window. A hubbub of little birds came to and fro the hanging bird-feeder, cracking, splitting and feasting on black oil sunflower seeds. There were chickadees and house sparrows, juncos and tufted titmouses (titmice?) several pairs of male and female cardinals, red bellied woodpeckers, and a blue jay. How?  It was terrifically cold outside!  Should not the smaller freeze the sooner? And they were yet more active than I have ever seen.

Their insulation must have been made just for them. Though small, their plumage was definite, and the pattern precise. Only the woodpecker wore his particular plumage. No sparrow borrowed from the Jay.  The under down on each bird was tucked neath the colors, and ruffed round their necks as they perched on a branch, waiting a turn at the feeder. The strength of the internal fire coming from their pulse must have been maintained without depression.  These darting birds seemed to relish the cold.  Together, the five of us marveled at the life in the deep cold of winter.

Also today, I picked two lemons.  Our shrubby lemon tree, wintering in the basement, must have been waiting until winter to ripen her fruits. They had hung from the stem, green, all the long fall. But when December arrived, behold, the metamorphosis began – they were not limes after all.

Never have we grown citrus before. This winter has been the second for these treelings.  When came the cold, we moved the pots from the back deck into the basement facing a southern window bay. Though our tree erupted with fragrant blossoms a year ago, no fruit came of them. Somehow this year, the blossoms came sooner, and resulted in three fruits before fall finished.

Picking these lemons today was like stumbling upon a blessing that could not possibly ever be expected.  As I brought them to my wife, I couldn’t help but laugh.  And she enjoyed them with me. A lemon in winter… to season the salad, or perk the tea. It was, I imagine, like finding a rose in winter, which I have never done. Though Juan Diego did. Many roses.  Or finding a diamond in the coal box. In it, was something of nature’s goodness in the bleakness.  Something of God’s humor in our seriousness.  

(communio.stblogs.org/index.php/2014/12/saint-juan-diego-2/)

From the protection of our home, Joy in the midst of what was otherwise inhospitable came to us. Life, defiant, resilient and coy, revealed a part of herself.

There is a thing in our souls like this. We are more fully ourselves when we look for success in the challenge, bear love in the anguish, or thrive, straining the more.  Consider the lilies.   We need be no greater than sparrows on the frost or more silly than lemons in winter.