We sat in the old church garden amongst willows and still-blossoming plum trees, eating afternoon tea and making daisy chains and not wanting to go home. How could anyone go home on such a spring day?
This is the season of wild-heartedness. I saw a barefoot man today crossing the pavement like a misplaced old god, and my spirit stirred. This is the season of skin laying down upon earth, and arms reaching around slow-pulsing brown trees, and singing with the birds.
I am not ready for summer. I want to a whole lavish lot more of this promising. This wry dreaming that tumbles in on the squally sunlit wind. I want the secret heart of joy about Christmas for a bit longer, not decorations already up and advertisments begun. Let me linger and wish. This culture has forgotten about the deliciousness of yearning. We are in such a hurry; we jump right in; we are always ready. But for me the best time is the before-time, so alive with possibility.
I love a King who is wise and calm-eyed on his sun-gold throne. I love the power of him, the certainty and strength. But I love even more to hear stories of his road to kingship, how he trod his blood into the earth and over the brambles, how his voice grew its timbre, how each star in his heart was gathered from dark places. I know summer comes after spring, I know advent brings Christmas - but the knowing makes the waiting somehow even more exhilirating. It's a backwards kind of blessing. It's more than hope, more than faith. It's what comes with being sure. And only one thing gives us that good and heart-filling, nerve-tingling sureness. Love.