The Long, Confusing Hope of Spring

AKA Lent, Where My Book Currently Lives

Everyone’s got jokes about February. It’s dark, they say. It’s cold. We’re tired of winter, they say. (For the record, I agree with them). But March has a much better reputation than it deserves, in my opinion. In the mountains last week, we had two gorgeous days of sunshine and short sleeves, followed by a frigid thunderstorm and power loss. There are buds on the trees, but my fingers are numb. Winter is hard— but spring is confusing.

The word Lent comes from a Germanic word that means long. Technically this has more to do with the lengthening of days as the season changes (side note: add Daylight Savings to my list of springtime gripes) but I often think of its unintended double meaning. The in-between seasons of our lives are almost always longer than we want them to be.

Lent is purposeful, important, formative. We fast or give alms or at the very least think more about Jesus’ death than we might otherwise during the year. But we are doing these things while the promise of Easter whispers at us in the weather. With our senses, we anticipate the joy of resurrection. Through our penitence, we remember the agony of the cross. If I’m honest, Lent is for me at times an exercise in cognitive dissonance.

Last night at my house we celebrated St. Patrick’s Day with cupcakes and a cartoon film about Patrick’s life. I was struck by how long he had to wait from the first time he cried out to God for rescue from slavery to the day of his escape. At one point in the movie, he sits in the muddy rain and asks, “Why me?” Of course, we know the answer. We who’ve heard how the story ends know that these long years in isolation—where Patrick learned to pray and to love Ireland— were part of his formation as a Christian and as a future missionary. But in real time it must have been very confusing.

In my own formation, there are a handful of areas where I can tell that God is at work, but I am confused by the slowness. Or rather, I’m confused when things that I thought were “healed” or behind me reappear, like cold rain after a few warm days. My faith, my ability to forgive, my fragile trust in God’s goodness are like tiny buds that get frost-bitten from time to time. What I think I’m learning in this is to recognize time as one of God’s tools—to not resent the long, slow work of grace but to embrace it as the only path forward.

Right now, I’m working toward a book launch that is still in the distant future. It’s so far away that I can’t even tell you the date yet (!) but it’s also close enough that I have work to do on it. Work that is exciting to me but remains, for now, quiet and preparatory. One day I’ll get to share more of that with you. Until then, I know God is wasting none of this quiet spring with me. In the cognitive dissonance of working on a book that remains hidden, I am learning to be less subject to the frequent changes in weather and more solidly rooted in the soil of His sovereignty. I don’t have to understand it all. I just need to remember that He is trustworthy.

Hannah+
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If you’re curious…
Here are some things I have been up to the last few months:

-A really beautiful podcast conversation about incarnational ministry (and yep, the eucharist) with new friends at Global Trellis, who support cross-cultural workers.

-An article in Christianity Today about how my parents’ witness (in life and death) have shaped my understanding of love.

-An appearance as the “bonus” (read: junior) Hannah on The Esau McCaulley podcast for a discussion about internet rage. (There is one exciting book update in the last 5 minutes of this one!)