Cross-bearers
Cross-bearers: March 15, 2020
As soon as I post this I’m going outside. The Spring Peepers have waked up and begun peeping at dusk. That and the blooming of our massive Weeping Cherry tree signal Spring to me. The Cherry is a local landmark and the mother of at least 8 daughter trees flung among our near neighbors. As when the Lenten roses bloom, the Peepers are a reminder for me of this wilderness time before Easter. This is the liturgical, expectant waiting before Resurrection takes hold.
Chorus frogs sing together in the genus Pseudacris. Spring Peeper is the common name of Pseudacris crucifer. In some churches, the Crucifer is the person who carries the cross in the procession before and after a worship service. In chorus frogs, the crucifer is the little frog bearing a mighty voice and a distinctive X mark on its back. That seems appropriate for a Lenten emergence, right? Plus, they are fascinating.
These small frogs (two could fit on your thumb) overwinter in knotholes and under tree bark by producing low molecular weight cryoprotectants. That is to say, antifreeze.
“Up to 70% of the frog’s body can freeze, to the point that the heart stops pumping and the frog appears to be dead. Scientists still aren’t sure how frozen frogs can wake up again, but once they thaw out and wake up, most frogs will go through a period of healing before they resume their normal lives.”
Their normal lives begin with attracting mates, staying hydrated, and avoiding predators. They are the sound of early Spring.
This is an unusual Spring. In the midst of COVID-19 news—sickness, death, closures, cancellations, bravery—I keep my perspective by looking outside. There are the Cardinals careening among the holly bushes; a squirrel stripping bark from the Tulip Poplars for her floppy nest above the Camellias; the Carolina Wren weaving her exquisite cup nest in a basket on the back porch. The riot of Forsythia and leaf blades of the irises. Life just keeps right on. That’s both comforting and slightly distressing. Life, relentless life, will spin along regardless of our human tragedies, missteps, hubris.
Whatever damage we do, the Earth will recover, with or without humans. This small blue dot will survive whatever humans do to destroy it for our own species. The sun will continue to ‘rise’ and ‘set’ for millennia with or without us. All of the hoopla and all of the policy decisions about global climate change are about preserving an Earth hospitable for humans. But we are neither a given nor a necessity. This is both comforting and distressing.
Still, it’s hard not to be hopeful in Spring.
Spring is newness without the loaded anticipation of other beginnings, like new year’s resolutions or new school year resolutions or new job resolutions. Instead of a prescriptive way to approach a new opportunity, Spring is an opening to the possibility of something entirely new. It is the bewildering gift of resurrection. See this new thing—death overturned. Death not the final answer; death the openness to a new reality.
My bee colony didn’t survive winter, again. Four years, eight colonies, zero survivors. For now, I’m giving up on beekeeping. Schools have been cancelled, at least through the end of March. Two people in my house are figuring out how to teach from home. One person will need to figure out how to learn from home. One person will need to channel her exuberance and keep herself occupied without interrupting the others. And I will try to remain the calm family center while also trying to work from home.
Jack and Emma spent the weekend in Atlanta with aunt, uncles and cousins. I drove halfway to meet my sister-in-law this afternoon and marveled anew at the beauty of renewal. Swags of Yellow Jasmine festooning the highway pines. Gossamer burgundy halos around the Maples and Oaks. Bumpy purple clouds around the Redbuds. The horror of Bradford Pears.
In all likelihood, our Spring Break vacation to Disney World and Universal Studios will be cancelled. The master’s-degree level of planning I put into this vacation completely exhausted me before it began to feel hopeful and exciting. I’m not about to start over when public health directives and precautions and restrictions are changing hour by hour. Lent is acknowledging that my spring plans are completely upended and not in my control. The only thing I can control at this point—at any point—is me. My intentions, my reactions, the angst or comfort I’m putting out into the world.
For those of us fortunate enough not to have a sick family member, who have paid sick leave and reasonable employers, who have adequate food stores and household products: we have the luxury to define this time for ourselves. Will we be miserable and putout by all we’ve lost, by all we’ve been inconvenienced? Or, will we choose to define it as a time of Sabbath? Advent without the hype of Christmas; a true Lenten season that can endure the pain of rebirth and weather the defeat of Death.
How will this family live together well? We all need exercise. Patience with each other. A loose, but intentional schedule.
We’ll make a list of things we can do together and apart. Play board games. Dance. Make cookies. Read. Watch movies. Play basketball. Make love. Go for walks. Garden. Do schoolwork. Draw. Play Charades and one-minute games. Hide and seek. Listen to the Spring Peepers. Collect Cherry petals. Fix the telescope and learn the night sky. Walk the dog. Clean the closet. Cook. Talk and listen. Do dishes. Do laundry. Send cards to loved ones. Talk on the phone. Sleep.
Sabbath is producing antifreeze because you trust that around equinox the sun will thaw you to new life. It is salmon swimming upstream to a spawning ritual they don’t remember yet are meant to repeat. It is the wren steadily refusing to give up her perfect nesting site and the cherry frothing abundant one more time.
I’m going to do my best to maintain this perspective, to choose to go deep instead of dark, and to emerge reinvigorated to live into God’s call on my life. Won’t you join me?
We can emerge from our enforced hibernation, thaw out and wake up with the gift of Easter, enter a period of healing—seeing the world with spring green eyes—and resume our normal lives, ready to be the people God has called us to be. For some inspiration, listen to these joyful cross-bearers.
