My Renewal: Taking a Walk Before The Day Begins

Spring’s return requires a faithful heart

I’ve written a couple of times about potholes and the brown Alaskan spring.

But really, it takes a lot of faith that spring will eventually break out into the vibrant green.

A few years ago I drug my family to an Easter service. My kids had never been to church, and I thought the holiday would be a fine time to introduce them to the tradition.

I went because I wanted a reminder of life returning, of love persisting, of how light perseveres even when life seems hopeless.

What we got was a literal interpretation of Christ’s resurrection. There was no metaphor and no comparisons made to spring rejuvenation. The service was so committed to rendering the beautiful (and dark) Christian myth as fact, that all the important messages got lost.

My kids didn’t get it. I didn’t get it. This in no way matched their experience of death.

They understood the goldfish that mom killed by accident was not coming back.

They understood their grandpa had died and their mom was really sad. They even understood that Grandpa lives on in their hearts.

But, as a couple of Alaskan kids, they also understood the complete and total darkness of winter and the long wait for the sun to return. They understood the colors of earth dying back, life resting under the cover of snow, and the promise of resurrection in the spring.

So this spring, as I celebrate the snow melting in my yard and the precious brown matted grass emerging underneath, I think about renewal as something that requires patience, faith, and our attention.

It is a miracle: we don’t expect things to rise up again, even though we know they will.

It is a miracle: the people that we love, no matter how long they are gone, their presence persists in our hearts and our relationships with them continue.

But also, renewal requires the attention of our hearts.

I haven’t done my most important thing this week, the one thing that grounds me no matter how lost I feel:

I haven’t gone for a walk.

When I take a walk, I focus on the feel of the ground beneath my feet; the mud collecting on my soles, and the way the air smells cold and wet. I squint and imagine the trees have leaf buds, even though they are still twiggy, bare things. I wonder if the trees feel naked shame in their barrenness.

Trucks pass by me on the way to the dump, dirt obscuring the true color of their paint. The drivers wave and I wave back and marvel at this simple gesture of humanity.

My heart has been unsteady the past week, and I’ve abandoned the ground itself. When I get back from a walk, suddenly I’m ready for whatever comes next. My task list seems doable, my heart is rejuvenated. The impossible suddenly seems manageable.

Why, when things get rocky, do we abandon the things we need most? The actions most likely to bring us renewal are too often the first to be sidelined.

So, after I finish my coffee, nudge the kids awake, and do all the mom things required to send two small humans off into the world, I’m going to come back and put on my boots and walk into the day.

I’m going to practice taking notice of the world around me and having faith in the resurrection of spring.

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