Where is your Sting?

That time when winter came, and stayed.  Relentlessly digging those cold death claws deep within, gripping tight.  Barren, empty, dark, dead, each day hope weakens at the prospect of life, new, green life.

How long, O lord? How long will the wicked be allowed to gloat? (Psalms 94:3 NLT)

The ferocious weight of winter became too much to bear.  And then, in the silence the thunderous break. Cracking branches fall to the ground tired and sore.  Branches unable to bear the burden of crippling ice. It's deceptive beauty brings death.

Finally the wrath cools.  The claws loosen their grip. The deep dark ground warms and hope is restored.  Hope and grief coexisting in the same heart, the same life.  Hope of brighter days, bursting life and a new start. Grief over lost beauty, majesty and cool shade when it's time to complain about summer's blaze. Grief over mess. Work, more work on an already full and busy life.

Eventually the hope grows bigger, using more life to crowd out the grief. Life is birthed restored, renewed.  Fragile and weak but fresh, young and protected. The dance and chance of life begins all over again.

One day young Maple, you will be the strength in this corner. Your broad shoulders will provide home  for critters nesting and relief from scorching sun.

Until then we wait, we watch, we hope.

"So Lord what hope do I have? You are my hope!" Psalm 39:7