What a winter we’ve had.
The pandemic, the politics, the panic.
Jobs lost, and family members too. Too many hopes (and people) dead.
And somehow, spring reminds us that winter is ripe for birth.
Winter is always ripe for birth.
As Lewis writes, the seed, myself, that which is deep-buried, may not die, if He is.
And He is.
And though I forget the sun, He remembers.
And though I forget the spring, He remembers.
There is beauty still.
There is hope still.
For He is, still.
The Naked Seed
by CS Lewis
My heart is empty. All the fountains that should run
With longing, are in me
Dried up. In all my countryside there is not one
That drips to find the sea.
I have no care for anything thy love can grant
Except the moment’s vain
And hardly noticed filling of the moment’s want
And to be free of pain.
Oh, thou that art unwearying, that dost neither sleep
Nor slumber, who didst take
All care for Lazarus in the careless tomb, oh keep
Watch for me while I wake.
If thou think for me what I cannot think, if thou
Desire for me what I
Cannot desire, my soul’s interior Form, though now
Deep-buried, will not die,
—No more than the insensible dropp’d seed which grows
Through winter ripe for birth
Because, while it forgets, the heaven remembering throws
Sweet influence still on earth,
—Because the heaven, moved moth-like by thy beauty, goes
Still turning round the earth.