Looking through photos on this dreary, gray day, several from our early January snow stand out. During this unusually mild winter, we’ve had only one snow here in Northern Virginia. I’m hoping we can glide smoothly into an early spring without an icy blast to decimate the young buds that are creeping up and out all over. But early on that snowy morning of January 8, the glow of sunshine on the trees was briefly dazzling. While most branches appeared as though frosted with white royal icing, the sun’s rays picked out certain tree tops to gild with metallic brilliance. The result, against a quickly changing backdrop of blue sky dotted with clouds of white, pink and lavender, was a vision of spectacular luminosity. These photos convey only a suggestion of the radiance I saw on that frosty morning seven weeks ago.
Before long, the light shifted, the other-worldly glow faded, and the colorful brilliance seeped away. The snow-covered landscape, in clean tones of white, gray and black, was still beautiful, but it was a more ordinary sort of beauty.
Even ordinary beauty is a wonderful thing, of course. But these pictures remind me to keep a watchful eye. In the midst of the everyday, a sudden glimpse of the extraordinary (perhaps, who knows, even a glimmer of heaven?) is a possibility, if a fleeting one.
Mid-afternoon on Tuesday, big blobs of snow suddenly began falling. Trees and grassy areas were quickly coated. An hour later, our nandinas were bent double, weighed down dramatically by the heavy accumulation. By early evening, the sky was clearing and the half-moon was bright. The shadows of the silver maples were sharply defined on our front lawn. This glowing, moonlit landscape, as I’ve written before, is perhaps my favorite view, ever and anywhere. (See here, in a post from 2014.) It’s certainly one of the aspects I love best about living in our house.
The vision always carries me back to the first winter we spent in our house. Our now twenty-one year-old daughter was just a year old. I spent many hours each night sitting in a rocking chair, holding my baby and looking out at the snow. The winter of 2000 was an especially snowy one, and our daughter resisted sleep with steely resolve. She required lots of rocking, lots of snuggling, lots of nursing. The first time I looked up from the face of my (at long last) sleeping baby and saw the dark blue shadows of the trees etched so distinctly on the lawn, I gasped. I expect such an image in a snow scene painted by Maxfield Parrish, but I didn’t think I’d see it in my front yard.
I’d assumed the vision couldn’t be captured in a photograph. But Tuesday night I thought it was worth a try.
These pictures don’t fully catch the magical effect I witnessed firsthand, but they give some idea.
As my daughter and I worked to chip away at the thick ice on our back walkway yesterday afternoon, I was briefly disheartened to think of the long stretch of winter yet to come. Then I remembered the spectacle of moonlight shadows on the lawn. The February Snow Moon will be here soon. May it live up to its name.
It’s January 7th, 2020. The Christmas season is officially over. For our family, it was a happy and busy one. We felt fortunate to welcome our daughter home from college for an extended stay, as well as to have my mother living next door. I didn’t find the time for writing more than one quick Christmas post. But the message of Christmas is one to live by every day. And the gift of Christmas is persistent. It waits to be received, regardless of the time of year. So, a look back on Christmas Eve, and a look ahead, with hope for the future.
The familiar, expected beasts were all there at the nativity on Christmas Eve. There was the furry, gray-brown burrow, always a crowd favorite. The humble image of patience, fortitude and forbearance, this little donkey reminds us of the one that may have carried young Mary and her unborn child to Bethlehem many years ago.
Two fluffy sheep quietly munched on hay. The two goats took more curious notice of the onlookers around them. They remind us that ordinary farm animals likely witnessed the holy birth.
There were a few dogs, including Kiko, who was fortunate in meeting a kindly shepherd girl who allowed him to wander at will among the other furry creatures. Maybe those original shepherds brought with them a sheepdog or two? I’m not certain where the scholarship stands on this point. No shepherd would benefit from a dog like Kiko, who lacks the herding instinct as well as any semblance of a work ethic. Come to think of it, our dog’s interest in other living beings is confined largely to the smells they leave behind.
Sweet Delilah the camel, on the other hand, seems to truly enjoy social interaction with her animal companions, as well as with her human admirers. This year, as always, she snuggled enthusiastically with kids and old folks, and posed for endless pictures.
With such a remarkable menagerie so close at hand, the human presence may take a back seat at a live nativity. But those wearing the costumes of Mary and Joseph remind us that God chose to send his son to be born not to the rich and powerful, but to a couple who counted themselves among the working poor. Those dressed as shepherds recall the lowly field workers who were the first to be summoned, and by angels, no less, to receive the joyful, life-changing news of a savior’s birth. The so-called Magi, like their camel, would not have made an appearance at the stable in Bethlehem. These wealthy pagan astrologers from the East arrived months or perhaps even years after the birth, when Jesus and his parents were living in some modest home, perhaps in Nazareth. But they’re included in nativity scenes to signify that this baby, born to obscure observant Jews of the artisan class, is God’s gift to all people, regardless of heritage or ethnicity, and to all generations.
The point of the Christmas narrative, of course, is this baby. In our nativity, the newborn Jesus is represented by a mere doll, which, in terms of purely visual interest, cannot begin to compete with so much furry, four-legged charm. This unremarkable doll is an inadequate place-holder not simply for a real baby, but for a miraculous union of the human with the divine. The baby Jesus is, according to the Gospel of John, God’s Word, the Word through which everything was created, newly manifested in human form.
And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us. He was full of unfailing love and faithfulness. And we have seen his glory, the glory of the Father’s one and only Son. –John 1:14
God loves us so much that he sent his son to live out the human experience as our brother and friend. Jesus pointed the way, through example, showing us how to claim our kinship with him and our inheritance as children of God. Jesus didn’t bring a message of complicated theology and countless esoteric rules to follow. The essence of his message, emphasized repeatedly throughout the years of his earthly ministry, is disarmingly simple:
Love each other. Just as I have loved you, you should love each other. Your love for one another will prove to the world that you are my disciples. –John 13: 34-35
The essential message of Christmas is simple, too. God’s great love breaks down all barriers, of geography, race, gender, of social and economic class. We humans are skilled builders of artificial and arbitrary barriers, but there is not one that can withstand the sheer force of goodness that is God’s love. God loves us all. And he wants us to love each other.
He has created us to do so:
In the beginning was the Word. The Word was with God, and the Word was God. He existed in the beginning with God. God created everything through him, and nothing was created except through him. The Word gave life to everything that was created, and his life brought light to everyone. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it. –John 1: 1 -5
So therefore, the light of God is present in all creation.* I like to think I can sense the divine spark shining within every humble beast at our live nativity, as well as in all our animal friends. What are they, anyway, but God’s beloved creatures?
That seed of holy light has been implanted in every one of God’s human children. With the kindness and compassion that have their source in God our Father, let us do our best to kindle the divine spark within ourselves. Let us nurture and share the warmth of that light with our neighbors, near and far. With those who look and think like us, and with those who don’t. Let us resist quick judgement, avoid pettiness, and act with generosity of spirit.
Let us love one another. We were made for this.
*This idea is explored powerfully and beautifully by Richard Rohr in his 2019 book, The Universal Christ: How a Forgotten Reality Can Change Everything We See, Hope for, and Believe.
This October has felt, and until recently, looked, more like late spring. Our pale pink climbing roses usually bloom sparingly after their all-out blast in May. But this year, while the foliage is yellowing and fat red rose hips are plentiful, the flowers continue to pop.
It’s odd to see pink rosebuds intermingling with ripening Nandina berries.
Along the fenceline, our red roses are far more plentiful than is typical for late October.
The deep velvety red of this petunia contrasts sharply with its dry brown foliage.
These candy-striped and purple petunias endure while their leaves wither.
Even our lilac has been confused.
I’m reminded of the unseasonably warm year I spent in England during grad school, when I noted with wonder that the roses slowed their blooming as winter approached, but never stopped.
And I think of Keats’s ode, To Autumn, that season of mists and mellow fruitfulness:
. . .how to load and bless
With fruit the vines that round the thatch-eaves run:
After a sluggish and hesitant prologue, the phases of our Northern Virginia spring have been moving right along at a rapid and regular clip. We still wake up to the occasionally chilly morning, but there have been no recent dips below freezing. Spring now has a spring in its step.
As the branches of the earlier blooming cherry trees were greening, the ground beneath them being transformed into a carpet of pink petals, the next wave of blossoms, darker in color, was peaking.
The bright fuchsia buds of our Appalachian Redbud always take their good sweet time in emerging. When they appeared, they were as brilliant and jewel-like as ever.
Last spring, a bitter cold snap blasted the buds of the camellia that nestles in a corner of my mother’s house. This year we were treated to a show of lush red flowers.
Spring in three layers: camellias and fuchsia blossoms against a backdrop of weeping cherry.
In October I planted some sixty daffodil bulbs in a barren mulch patch beneath a black walnut tree in our front yard. All winter I kept my eye on the area, watching for the first shoots of spiky foliage to emerge from the snow. I love the optimism implied in planting bulbs. It’s assuring to remember that even in the depths of winter, regenerating forces are at work, beneath the ground and even in the frigid air. When I spot those first green tips, usually in early February, I never fail to be surprised, yet comforted by such faithful heralds of the spring. The first daffodils to bloom were the smallest, the Tete-a-Tete miniatures. As their golden heads bobbed in fierce March winds, they were the picture of cheery perkiness. Following soon were the tall, bold Trumpet Masters, the type I remember from old Easter coloring books. Next appeared some fancy double blooms. With ruffled petals in shades of apricot and pale yellow, this variety reminds me of Cinderella dressed for the ball.
The last to join the daffodil band were several pink cupped varieties, simple but elegant with their delicate shadings and crimped-edged centers. The mulch patch has plenty of room for more inhabitants. This fall, if things go as planned, I’ll add another sixty bulbs.
Wild violets tend to pop up fortuitously around the grape hyacinths I planted two years ago. These kindred spirits pair well in mini bouquets.
Our rhododendron is currently putting on an exuberant show.
As are the azaleas. In red. . .
White. . .
On this second day of May, our Japanese maples glow fiery red in the sun. The old silver maples have sent forth their multitudes of angel-winged seed pods. Our trellis roses will be budding any day now. The air smells of lilac, laurel, locust blossoms and honeysuckle. Spring’s final phase is at the ready. The warmth of the morning anticipates summer, and Kiko, still in his winter fur, seeks the shade.
Cherry blossom season crept up on me this year, as on the softest of silent pink petal feet. The famous DC trees had been in glorious bloom for a while, like those just a few miles away. But in our neighborhood, which must lie in a cold spot, winter persisted. And persisted. Until suddenly, about two weeks ago, spring burst forth. Thanks to relatively cool temperatures, the formerly bare brown branches of our local trees are still mostly obscured by clouds of fluffy pink. On this chilly, blustery day, a spring snow of rose colored petals swirls in the air. The wind continues to gust. Our cherry blossoms will soon become pink ground cover, and spring’s next act will take center stage.
Charlottesville is about a hundred miles south of our home in the DC suburbs. The weather there is consistently warmer and sunnier than here in Northern Virginia, and spring tends to arrive earlier. My daughter thoroughly appreciates the beauty of her temporary home. She knows I do, as well. I’ve been wanting someone in our family to attend the University of Virginia for the last thirty years, but that’s another story. Here now, thanks to my daughter, some photos of Charlottesville in its spring glory.
Among my list of life’s greatest luxuries is this: a stormy day with no appointments, no commitments, a bad-weather day that offers the chance for an extended snuggle with my sweet, sleeping dog. The rain arrived last night, just as predicted. After a short morning walk and a largely futile attempt to dry his wet fur, Kiko was curled on our favorite sofa, heading off contentedly to doggie dreamland.
Before long, I crawled in, around and sort of under him. Carefully, so as not to disturb. As I’ve said before, Kiko, by nature, is more aloof than affectionate. No lap dog, this stately Prince of Cool, he’s reserved and prefers his own space. Unless there is thunder, or the suggestion of it. Then he can’t get close enough. See here. But as he’s aged, he’s become increasingly amenable to human contact. More and more frequently, he tolerates, and occasionally even seems to enjoy, my close presence as he sleeps. Sometimes he even rests his head on my leg. I consider this gesture to be his highest compliment. Despite today’s rain, Kiko doesn’t seem anxious about the possibility of thunder. Yet he very nearly welcomes me. He does love me. On this rainy day, I’m sure of it. What a comfort it is to join my little dog in dreamland for a while. What sweet spot for shelter in the storm.
Are you there, Spring? On this first official day of the new season, our area has been granted bright sunshine, if little accompanying warmth. No complaints, here, though. After so many sodden, gray days, some blue sky is a dazzling, welcome vision.
Considering the prevailing March chill, it’s hardly a surprise that our Northern Virginia spring is not off to a particularly showy start. It’s wisely hesitant, biding its time. I’ve seen a few daffodils in bloom, although none in our yard. Our hyacinths are sending up spiky green shoots. The redbud is clearly in no rush.
Around our little local lake, most trees retain the stark wintery guise they’ve worn since January. Only the buds of the maples provide a wash of rosy color.
Pounding rain and high winds are predicted here in the days ahead. Wherever you are, may you find some sunshine to savor. And may you trust in the promise of spring.
It’s a bitterly cold Ash Wednesday here in Northern Virginia, as in much of the country. An icy breeze whips up from time to time. But the sun is shining brightly, and at least for a brief while, nothing frozen is falling from the sky. The weather seems appropriate. It’s conducive to imagining the joy and beauty of an ideal Easter morning while experiencing the big chill of Ash Wednesday. This is a day for a clear-eyed, head-on look at our mortality, a time to peer into the bleakness of what would have been, had it not been for God’s saving grace. It marks the start of Lent, the forty-day period leading up to Easter, during which prayer, repentance and self-denial are encouraged. Lent’s Biblical basis is Christ’s retreat to the wilderness to commune with the Father in preparation for his ministry.
So what’s the deal with the ashes? Why the messy smudges on foreheads of neatly dressed and otherwise well-scrubbed people? It’s because of these words from Genesis 3:19, declared by God to Adam and Eve, just before He ushered them out of Eden, the paradise garden He had intended as their eternal, blissful home.
You are dust, and to dust you shall return.
Tough words from the Creator and Landlord. What did the privileged First Couple do to make God so angry? Incensed enough that He sent the two, created in His own image, out into desolation, to eke out a living through toil and pain?
Many of you who didn’t grow up attending church and Sunday School, along with some of you who did, no doubt consider the saga of Adam and Eve just another myth for the simple-minded. Whether you see it as God’s literal Truth, an interesting folk tale or something in between, it’s a powerful story worth contemplating. Here’s my take on the Fall and its particular significance on Ash Wednesday.
Adam and Eve lived in a glorious garden created by God, suffused with His divine light, life and love. They had full-time leisure, full-time luxury. God walked with them there in the garden. The trees dripped with delicious treats, theirs for the easy picking. All except for the apples on one tree. A tree with an impressive-sounding name: The Tree of the Knowledge of Good and Evil.
Life was wonderful. Life was beautiful.
Among the friendly and fantastic creatures of the garden, there was a serpent. He was wise and wily, and he knew about that whole free-will thing. Indeed, he owed his very existence to what he saw as the weak link in God’s great plan. The serpent looked with contempt upon the innocent contentment of the two humans. He realized the fragility of the thread that kept them in their lovely home. It wasn’t long before this scaly Con Guy Supreme made his move. Appealing to Eve’s pride, he offered an opportunity for further greatness. Knowledge equal to God’s was at her fingertips, but God selfishly chose to keep this power to Himself. She deserved better, didn’t she? So Eve ate from the tree. Adam, who apparently needed no convincing, munched long complacently.
God found out. He wasn’t happy. Paradise was lost, for the taste of a forbidden fruit. We may think we would have known better. But probably not. Like Eve, we might have been tripped up by pride. Or maybe, like Adam, we might have given very little thought to the matter. If Eve says it’s fine, it must be. In simply thinking we would have known better, it’s evident that we would not have. With free will comes the ability to make the wrong choice, a choice we tend to exercise repeatedly. Like Adam and Eve, if left to our own devices, our fate would be to wander in the dust.
But we are not abandoned, without hope, in a barren land. Paradise is still within our grasp, as these words from Mark 1:15 tell us:
Repent and believe the good news!
On Ash Wednesday, we confront the grim reality of our tendency toward pride, selfishness and petty meanness. On our own, none of us will ever be good enough to work our way back to Eden. But we don’t have to be. The Christ that was already present within creation since God spoke the universe into existence, the very Word of God described in John 1: 1 – 5, came to earth in human form. Jesus, fully divine yet fully human, took our sins upon Himself. As the spotless Lamb of God, the perfect sacrifice, He wiped our messy slates clean.
To accept Christ’s free gift of salvation, we merely need to acknowledge our wrongheadedness and to ask forgiveness. God’s forgiveness is granted for our willingness to repent; it’s not contingent on our going forward without a misstep. We are human; we will stumble and lose our way at times. We cannot be perfect in this lifetime, but we can desire to achieve perfection.
The Ash Wednesday ashes are marked on the forehead in the shape of a cross, the instrument of death that became the tree of life. Christ’s good news saves us from a future of ashy, dusty nothingness, replacing it with the promise of unimaginable joy in a paradise everlasting. We can’t even comprehend unending joy; our flawed human nature prevents us. But we will understand it fully, and magnificently, one day, I am convinced.
On this frigid Ash Wednesday, the sun’s rays fall on new green shoots and buds. We are reminded of the new life that comes of death, of the new birth offered to us without price. On this Ash Wednesday, look into the darkness of the ashes. Then give thanks for the love that pulls us back into the light.
A blog about motherhood, marriage and life: the joys and frustrations, beauty and absurdity, blessings and pain. It's about looking back, looking ahead, and walking the dog.