A Psalm of Survival

a devotional for late winter

Photo by Joshua J. Cotten on Unsplash

Thank you for joining us!

Before we begin our devotional, I wanted to share a Comment Highlight from last week:

On last week’s devotional, TBollen commented:

Is it acceptable to admit to a certain climate-related schizophrenia? I, too, am eager for spring green, and its first tiny signs are a thrill, just as the first time the thermometer hits 60 degrees always feels like a harbinger of summer. But when the sun is out and the air is warm 5 months hence, I know I'll occasionally miss rainy January days tucked under the fuzzy red throw, cozy and content. reading the Saturday away with nary a shred of guilt. As wintering comes to an end, I expect I'll sigh as we put the red throw away, and I'll wonder if I have enough line for the weed whacker. I'm gonna need it.

Completely relatable, TBollen, and thank you so much for sharing your beautiful thoughts with us!

If you want a chance to be featured in next week’s Comment Highlight, all you have to do is post a comment on any of this week’s posts or threads. That’s it!

Now, on with this week’s devotional…

---

the song of spring
is a song of harp-string herons,
sparrow serenade
and wind
instruments;

the Troubadour plays
His own hymns
on the surface
of the rain-swelling
pond,

and the frogs
tentative 
sing out
from their cloisters
in the heights
of the cathedral trees

and the depths
of the life-giving
mud. 

When we think about spring, we associate it with song. This is no accident. Spring is when the migrating birds arrive, ready to attract mates and fill the woods with their calls. The frogs emerge from their hibernation and add to the chorus, sometimes deafening in their song. Even the earliest spring blooms feel like sweet music when we see their faces reappear in the brown and gray.

Spring’s song is the tune of relief after a long, cold winter. It is the psalm of survival.

True, it is still early, yet. But even here, a solitary frog—the intrepid first—sings out in the stillness of night, and the songbirds chatter louder than they have for months. The rain is percussion on the greenhouse roof. The buds on the branches are like music notes, as yet unplayed.

The Conductor has raised his baton. This is the hush before the song begins.

---

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