Wordless

At right, early spring flowers in our yard. Of all the colors in the Creator’s palette, I’m most fond of blue.

She who spoke not, said the most.

I spoke four times at a women’s retreat this weekend. But I think the most profound teaching didn’t come from my thousands of words, but the silence of an attendee with aphasia. I was touched by the sensitive spirit with which her disability was explained on the opening night. The other women were encouraged to connect with her and ask questions that could be answered with a nodded “yes” or “no.” One woman was her companion, helping her with feeding and personal needs.

Fittingly, one of my topics was “friendship.” Watching the women touch her, ask “yes” or “no” questions, and simply include her was a more powerful teacher than my “prepared” remarks on the traits of a F.R.I.E.N.D. (Oh, the acrostics that speakers build on!)

I thought of another person from the Bible left unable to speak, the priest Zechariah. Learning from an angel that he would father a son in his old age, he mocked at the impossibility, then his tongue went dumb. His speech returned when relatives disputed over what the newborn should be named. He settled the argument by writing on a tablet “John,” the name announced by the angel before the baby was even conceived.

Stop and wonder at what happened next: “Immediately his mouth was opened and his tongue was loosed, and he began to speak, praising God” (Luke 1:64).

My father was a “John,” a name that means “God is gracious.” (My name is a feminine form of John since I didn’t turn out to be John Junior.) It was exactly the right name for John the Baptist, who readied the Jews for the ministry of his cousin Jesus. For is not the story of Easter that of God’s grace? Of our deserved punishment for sin taken by God’s own Son?

The stores are full of the phony Easter, the fake grass and plastic eggs, bunnies and “Happy Spring” cards. But if we really—yes, really—consider the reason for Easter, we would be at a loss for words. Probably on our knees. Speechless before God.

Yet, like the women at the retreat, He reaches out to us. Hugs us. Connects with us. Cares for us. Reminds us that we are loved.

Yes, she who spoke not, said the most. And for that I praise God.

A Thorny Issue

Thanks to an unusually mild February, our roses are a month ahead in coming back to life. Already tiny red buds dot the thorny canes, signaling the need for spring pruning. I don’t enjoy the task. That’s because it means tackling 30 rose bushes between our home and that of my mom-in-law (still “in process” of cleanout since her death).

In late fall, after the killing hard frost, I lop the roses to thigh-high to prevent damage from heavy snow. But spring means tediously picking out dead leaves and pruning for maximum bloom. It’s time-consuming, cold (I wait for a sunny day), and contemplative work.

As I remove dead canes, snip sucker branches, and lop anything that interferes with a bloom-friendly “bowl” shape, I think of the Bible’s analogy to pruning grapes. Untended, both roses and grapes would propagate into snarled, weak tangles. Thus, even as I prune, I think of John 15:2: “He [God] cuts off every branch in me that bears no fruit, while every branch that does bear fruit he prunes so that it will be even more fruitful.” That’s why the activities and relationships of my life must get tune-ups—some cut away, others encouraged--as God shapes me for His purposes.

As I sit on an upended bucket to prune, I toss clippings into an old plastic cherry harvest lug. Every couple or three bushes, I empty it in our large garbage bin. The stiff, thorny mound grows, needing pushed down to make more room. This I do carefully, as rose thorns can pierce even my leather garden gloves.

Ouch! As I rip off the glove and suck the wound, I think of the crown of thorns heartlessly jammed on Jesus’ head in the insanity of illegal trials before He was crucified. Often the hymn “My Jesus, I Love Thee” comes to mind with this line: “I love thee for wearing the thorns on thy brow.”

It’s March…and Easter’s coming on April 4. The roses are now pruned. The dead-looking sticks now jabbing at the sky will begin their transformation to summer’s glorious display of red, pink, white, tangerine, and yellow.

For many, Easter’s symbols are lilies (reminder of a trumpet call), hot-crossed buns (the cross on the “bread of life”), pretzels (imitating a prayer posture) or eggs (for new life). But pruned roses have become my Easter symbol. My annual task in our rose garden reminds me that God is the expert spiritual pruner, and I’m grateful for that.

The Buttercup Race

Crocus in our front yard (photo, above) remind us that spring is coming. But for our family, there's something more important in heralding spring.....

It wasn’t hearing again the tsk-shrrrrr of the red-winged blackbirds on a walk last week on our local nature trail. Nor seeing the first crocus open. Not even realizing it was warm enough for a light jacket instead of the ski coat.

The true test of spring here was going on the traditional family covert search for the first buttercup of the spring. Last Thursday, I’d taken a final, weary bite of dinner leftovers when my husband spoke the magic words: “I have that feeling that one is waiting for us.”

“Give me ten minutes to wash dishes,” I pleaded as he hunted for a trowel and empty margarine containers. Soon we were headed to his secret location: a hillside in cherry country that gets most of the day’s sun.

In a tradition that may stretch back a couple generations, the Zorneses have tried to outdo each other in finding spring’s first buttercup. In recent years, my husband has won the race. One year, however, his homebound mother had friends aka “spring spies” who dug and delivered one to her before her son (my husband) got out for his own search.

The candidate we found had a tight-fisted bloom, but a day in window sun coaxed out the yellow. He made that sneaky call to his older sister, the other “race” participant (now that their mom has died), and left this message: “I want you to know that there’s something on our table.”

When the phone rang about twenty minutes later, I risked answering it, “Buttercup Headquarters!” (Whew, it was his sister!)

Traditions. They mattered to Tevye, the milkman father-of-daughters in “Fiddler on the Roof.” And they’re part of what makes family, “family.”

Besides the buttercups, we’ve had a candle-studded watermelon in lieu of a cake for my husband’s birthday. That began in his boyhood, when his June birthday usually coincided with the family’s involvement in church camps. Not able to bake, his mom substituted his favorite summer food, melon, for the candle-holder.

Other Zornes family traditions: the red “You Are Special” plate for birthdays and other honors. Ice cream bars after school concerts. Driving to a hillside neighborhood of half-million-dollar homes for a million-dollar view of July 4 fireworks (please pass the popcorn to the back seat).

Spring also means (ugh) rose pruning time, but I’ll save comments on that for next time.