are those lions outside?

holding onto hope in the lenten season

I just ordered seeds and bulbs for the spring and to say that I am beside myself is an understatement.

I AM SCREAMING.

I love the seasons–all of them. Yes, even winter. But spring messes me up. It’s short, it’s muddy (at least where I am), and it can still be cold, but all the earth stretches, yawns and comes to life. The most delicate blooms emerge from the ground. Snowdrops, daffodils, crocuses–these dainty buds push their way out of hard, frozen earth and thrive amongst the snow that is sometimes still on the ground. It defies logic.

And now, I am planning to take part in this natural ridiculousness. My seeds and bulbs have been ordered and I plan to nurse them like they’re a newborn. This year I chose a specific palette of sherbet tones and easy to grow blooms. I want Sam to be able to participate in growing them, and I want all of us to enjoy them, so sticking to things that are hard was important to me. To tell you that I sat at a coffee shop and deliberated over which things to buy and which to leave out of the cart for well over an hour is no exaggeration. Spring is coming, even as I strap my crampons back on and crunch my way back to the car. It’s coming.

But just as I am excited over seeds and the promise of a thawing ground, I am also reminded that the flowers I hope to grow will have a season, and then they’ll be gone.

hellabores, aka the lenten rose

Yesterday evening I received a message from my dad saying that his mother-in-law had passed away. At 96, Doris was as about as sharp and spunky as anyone could hope to be. It was only in the last month that they’d seen her decline. I have no memory of my great grandparents, and I doubt Sam will either. It’s strange to think that I’ll remember someone he won’t. I talk about my mother all the time, and Sam will cheerfully look at me and say “Grandmarmie died, right mama?” There’s no weight in his voice, but his words hit me like a ton of bricks. “Yes sweetie, she died.”

On Ash Wednesday, I again mentioned my mom and Sam asked me if I was going to die. I was not ready for this–I was constantly reassuring him that I was not leaving him and when he couldn’t see me, I was coming back for him. But at that moment, I couldn’t spin the truth.

Yes sweetie. Someday, hopefully a long time from now.
Mama, will I die?

I bit back tears. How do I tell his sweet three year old, whose body holds so much grief and pain that he doesn’t understand, that we were dust.

Yes sweetie. But I hope not for a long, long time.
Mama, I don’t want to die.
I know sweetie. I don’t want that either.

We hugged for a long time. He looked back at me with concerned, wide eyes. I couldn’t do anything other than hug him. I would be his mom for as long as I could, and then I would be gone. He’d live as long as he could, and then he wouldn’t.

Later in the day as we were playing, Sam looked at me and out of the blue said he didn’t want to die, and then went right back to playing.

And so it is with us.

….

If you haven’t listened to the music of Andy Squyres on Spotify or followed him and read his poetic tomes on Instagram, I strongly encourage you to do so. I had the opportunity to chat with Andy over Zoom and talk about being a Christian and a creative in the modern world late last summer. Honestly, it was his encouragement that finally lit a fire under my rear to jump on Substack and make a go of it.

Andy has a song called “Unanswered Prayers” on his Cherry Blossoms album and the chorus has rattling around in my head for the last week:

I’ve always loved you
I’ve tried my best
Why would you trust me
To love you in this?

The entire song is a perfect fit for the Lenten season, but these words had me in tears as I drove Sam to preschool the other day. I have spent ample time screaming at God, asking him why he’s allowing my family to stay in winter. I do love God, but with a limp. My best has been weak and full of doubt. And still, winter leads to spring. It always has, it always will. So the winter of life is really just the beginning. And the spring? I imagine it defies logic. I suppose that’s why it has to occur on the other side of life. Like hellebores in snow–it just doesn’t make any sense. And so the hellebores remind me that the Hoos family winter will end as well.

Yesterday Sam and I watched video after video on Youtube of different animals making their respective sounds. I hooked my iPhone up to our bluetooth speaker and our living room was filled with the barks, growls, and shrieks of the animal kingdom. We finally made our way to the lion and Sam sat amazed. We watched as lions in a wildlife enclosure paced around, roaring so deeply that the muscles in their stomachs contracted as they opened their mouths. The sound penetrated the room and Sam looked around, confused. He saw the video of the lion on the screen, but the sound seemed to come from everywhere. Our smallest dog perked us his ears, walking around the dining room attempting to find the lions that were making this sound. Even though Sam could see where the sound came from, he still had to ask.

Mama, are there lions outside?

Yes. Yes, I think there might be. And under the ground are bulbs waiting to push their way out through frozen earth. It’s winter, but spring is coming.

It might be Lent, but Aslan is on the move.

Always,
Emily

P.S. If you’re looking for a Lenten playlist, you’re welcome to check mine out here.