spring will come again

The garden is drifting to sleep.

Sheets of cold dew and coverlets of mist wrap around the still-green foliage. Patches of yellowing and mildew form like age spots on the leaves, reminders of a life-cycle coming to its end, and despite their weakening stems and the disappearing daylight the dahlias keep thrusting forth buds. It is a silent form of “rage against the dying of the light,” but a rage all the same—a refusal to go submissively to winter’s sleep.

First frost looms in the shadows like the Angel of Death. His cold touch will instantly and irrevocably turn the green of life to the black of mourning.

But even the Angel of Death can only kill the body. The soul—the nephesh, the life-conduit—is cradled safely in the hidden place, waiting for resurrection. The roots and seeds lay at peace in the earth, waiting for spring.

We might think of death-and-resurrection as a pattern started by Jesus, but it has been with us since God first divided light from darkness and set the times and seasons into motion. Day gives way to night and then dawns again. A full moon wanes until it disappears in shadow, and then waxes again. Growing-time becomes harvest-time becomes dormant-time before everything wakes up to grow anew.

The ceaseless liturgy of the created order mirrors the life, death, and life-again cycle—a cycle that first-fruits in Jesus, yes, but is sketched and hinted from Genesis 2, when the First Adam falls into a “deep sleep” to be awakened into a new Adam-and-Eve humanity, and is brought to fullness in Revelation 21 when the Last Eve—the Church, including all the saints and martyrs who have died from her inception—descends from heaven as the glorified Bride, the New Jerusalem.

In that day, death will be such a forgotten enemy from our long-ago past that we’ll no longer need reminders in the form of daily, monthly, or yearly “little deaths.” There will be no night there, no daily sleep of unconsciousness to remind us that our bodies will soon enough sleep with our fathers. We will have no need of sun or moon, for God’s light will shine perpetually, everlasting as our lives. The tree of life will yield its fruit every month; there is no winter, no season of dormancy, no Angel of Death to bring frost, only a better-than-Eden flourishing that is both endlessly productive and endlessly restful, somehow.

This is the hope I find in the garden drifting to sleep: not that I relish in small deaths, not that I won’t profoundly miss my flowers, but that for now it’s an irrefutable reminder that God is trustworthy and faithful. As I have no doubt that the sun will rise after tonight’s small death of night, or that the spring will come after this year’s small death of winter, or that the plants destroyed by frost will grow again next spring, I need have no doubt that my own mortal body is safe in the hands of the One who wove death-and-resurrection into every thread of Creation.

Paul wrote that “The last enemy to be destroyed is death” (1 Corinthians 15:26), but the destruction of death is one of the very first things written into the ordering of the universe. It has not yet come, but it is coming. From even before death was a threat to the Garden-dwellers its destiny was defeat.

There is a beautiful service on All Souls’ Day at my church in which we commend those who have died into the hands of God. We take down a list so we can commend each by name. I love this practice of opening our hearts to give our departed loved ones into the divine care of God, trusting that He—the first Gardener—knows how to tend them safely through the winter. Following the pattern of all Creation since before time began, spring will come again, and soon—when the last enemy is destroyed under Christ’s feet—we’ll get to worship Him together, in everlasting summer.

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So will it be with the resurrection of the dead: What is sown is perishable; it is raised imperishable. It is sown in dishonor; it is raised in glory. It is sown in weakness; it is raised in power.

1 Corinthians 15:42-43

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Alleluia!

at 31

I asked Sam the other day who the “child” was who was rolling hose at the fire station. Apparently that child was 23 and has already gone through medic school—older than I was when Sam got hired. Did I look that young, once?

I spend a fair amount of my time with people older than myself, but none of them has mentioned the weirdness of being a business owner in a networking group run by fellow 1990s-born peers, of taking your kids to a pediatrician younger than yourself, of realizing your husband is now the senior person on his shift when just the other day you were the newlyweds and newly-hireds meeting the veteran lieutenant for the first time.

And then Charlie Kirk was murdered.

Thirty-one years old.

Parent of two.

This is life now in the middle place, not young, not yet old: watching faces fade out of family photographs one by one, watching your baby morph into a toddler and then into a kid, every day feeling like you’re meeting someone new and losing someone old. Childish romanticization of young death gives way to a desperate prayer that God will have mercy on your family for another day, that the inevitable shattering loss will stay its hand for just one more hour of the present tranquility.

Time pulls like a riptide, and perhaps the lesson is that the harder you resist, the more likely you drown. Breathe. Don’t try to swim to shore. The waves will always win.

He was 31. So am I.

He was a parent of two. So am I.

He was mortal, fragile, always just one breath away from God taking His breath back. So am I.

At 31, a Levite man might have been a priest for a year. At 31, Jesus was one-third of the way through His ministry and two years away from death. At 31, my husband had already been bereaved of his mother; at 31, my mom became pregnant with me; at 31, my cousin Megan had just one year left to live.

In this state we live and endure, somewhere between certain death and eternal life, between paralyzed fear and a frenzied sprint, not young anymore but not quite old. Like wildflowers doggedly fighting for survival, we stay productive and pretty and try to forget that it’s all because we know winter is coming and we are going to die.

We don’t know when. But we can sense the angle of the sun is changing.

living in the expectation of dying

What About Bob is traditional family viewing for my in-laws, and over years of joining in against my will, I’ve slowly warmed up to the very-much-not-my-style comedy. Besides the delights of late-1980s fashion and its farcical plot, the movie somehow manages to make you (or me, anyway) think a lot about human nature and the human experience. The scene above is one that sticks with me: it’s supposed to be funny, watching these two neurotics room together and overthink the nature of life and reality of death, but of course—Siggy is right.

“There’s no way out of it. You’re going to die. I’m going to die. It’s going to happen.”

Or, as my Grandma B. used to say, “Honey, I don’t have to do anything except die and pay my taxes, and I’m in no hurry to do either one.”

Except some of us (ahem, me) have spent our lives convinced that there was a pretty good chance that it wouldn’t happen—not to us. We’d pay our taxes, but we weren’t planning on dying.

We were the Hal Lindsey and Tim LaHaye generation: We spent Sundays listening with interest (or terror) to a literal, dispensationalist interpretation of Scripture with an eschatology built around the core belief that we are looking for an end of the world that begins with the sudden whisking away of the entire Christian population from the earth (an event called the Rapture). The key signs to watch out for, despite the fact that this is supposed to happen “like a thief in the night,” are the decline of society into ever-greater evil and corruption, plus increasing violence against Christians all over the globe. The present-day headlines, whatever they happened to be, would serve as proof for this theory. I can’t remember how many times in the aftermath of 9/11 I heard, then just eight or nine years old, that we might at any time have to line up for a firing squad of terrorists and be called on to renounce our faith. I often imagined this scene, wondering if Jesus would intervene at the last moment by Rapturing us to heaven. (There is an entire website dedicated to watching for the Rapture, including a “Rapture Index” that measures current events in terms of how close we are getting to the event we seek. It’s currently within a few points of its all-time high.)

If you’ve ever walked into your home expecting to see your parents or your spouse there, only to find the place deserted, and thought “Did I get left behind?” you know exactly what I’m talking about.

As I’ve read through the Bible again and again over the last 10 years, I’ve come to wonder how an event with so little Biblical evidence has been allowed to take up so much space in many churches. I’m far from convinced it’s not there at all—if Jesus does suddenly sweep us all away from a dying earth while it experiences its last great troubles, I for one will be thrilled to see Him—but I do wonder if the obsession with it has blunted some of the Church’s work.

I’m 31 years old and I’m only now reaching Siggy’s uncomfortable conclusion: I am going to die. There is no get-out-of-death-free card. In the words of St. Paul, “To live is Christ and to die is gain”; this isn’t a reason to panic. But it is a reason to think about how I am living, how I am aging, how I am resting in Christ’s victory as I come to grips with my mortality and the high likelihood that this earth and the human race will continue well after I am gone.

Suppose we’ve had our eyes set on entirely the wrong prize all our lives? Looking endlessly for a worsening world, of course we found it; what we missed from that narrow viewpoint were all the ways life for human beings has massively improved over these last centuries, and maybe even some of the ways we could have joined in the spread of blessing. Injustice, greed, and cruelty are still everywhere, but so are efforts to make the world a better place and treat humans with greater dignity. Given the choice to be born at any time in history, realistically we’d all choose some point in the last 50 years—girlish romantics who fancy themselves Elizabeth Bennett notwithstanding (though I think they’d change their minds once they had to make, mend, wash, dry, starch, and iron all those pretty dresses by hand). Child mortality alone is a stunning example: For most of history, around 50% of all children globally didn’t live to age 15; by the year 1950 that number had fallen to 25%. As of 2020, it was just 4%, and it’s lower by another tenfold in wealthier countries.

But if our escape from death depends on this earth becoming more hellish, what motivation do we realistically have to bear good fruit, to bless our communities, and to spread the kingdom of heaven?

What better incentive to sit on our hands and watch the world burn than the expectation that as long as the fire gets bigger, we won’t be among those burning up?

I know I, for one, have noticed a shocking Max Detweiler-esque attitude within myself at times: “What’s going to happen’s going to happen. Just make sure it doesn’t happen to you!” But for hundreds upon hundreds of years, the Christian faith was second to none in building institutions and societies around the outlandish idea that humans are uniquely valuable. Yes, we’ve done an abjectly terrible job of this at times, but the fact remains that everything in the Western world and beyond has been touched by the influence of Christianity—the influence of Christians who believed a vital part of their calling was to broaden the boundary lines of God’s space on earth.

And so it should be! The Church is the plan. We are the Act Two of Israel’s mandate to bless the nations, commissioned by the Son of God Himself to take the Good News of the Kingdom to the ends of the earth. If we don’t prepare the way for the return of the Lord, who will? We eagerly wait, not to be snatched to safety while the bad guys get their due, but to welcome our Conqueror back to His Kingdom when His work is done.

And that could be tomorrow or in 10,000 years—so we must live in the expectation of dying, expending our lives for the testimony of God’s goodness and setting the big and small things right so that the next generation, and the next, and the next can continue the work toward readiness.

We plant gardens. We bake bread. We serve our neighbor. We share our resources. We learn, we work, we retire; we grow up, we raise children and grandchildren, we grow old. We love, we doubt, we fear, we trust. And then, like countless generations before us, we cross to the other side of that thin veil, into the open arms of a great cloud of witnesses.

And here, the work goes on until the King rides home.