Spring. It just takes my breath away.
I’m amazed, always, when I randomly poll groups of people and ask them about their favorite season of the year in Minnesota, that spring is not on the top of more people’s lists. It’s a great check-in question when starting a meeting—what’s your favorite season here and why?—and offers insights into the types of people I’m meeting with, what they appreciate and what they’re into.
I guess newness of life, greening, defeating winter, opening windows, triumph of life over death, new buds, colorful crocus, daffodils and tulips, vibrant cherry blossoms, the first robin, bright green grass, longer days, lakes becoming liquid again, and sheer miracle just doesn’t make the cut for most people.
It does for me.
Gorgeous tulip blooms, with leaves ravaged by bunnies
Being a native Minnesotan, I appreciate all four of our seasons. I love the variety we get, and how our weather and landscape change every few months. But there is something about beating the darkness, snow and ice and living to tell about it that makes spring especially delicious. What we have lived through—the cold and blizzards and short days with not enough light—means that spring is a season of triumph. And well-deserved. Not just for us, but for the cardinals, chickadees and the woodpeckers who endure the winter with us. And the squirrels and rabbits, mice and deer. How do any of us survive it really?
To know that the daffodil and tulip bulbs sending green shoots up through the soil were sitting just 4 or 5” or so below the ground in a frozen tundra all winter is a miracle. How do they stay dormant, but not succumb to the cold and freeze off? So many of the perennials we cherish are sending forth life now—the tightly coiled shoots of Hosta leaves, along with Lilies, Sedum, and Lamb’s Ear. I walk through my yard and marvel at it all. Like me, they all have survived many Minnesota winters.
Hosta spikes breaking ground--these will soon be huge, flat leaves
I love when my children take the time to notice the world around them too. Together we point out the greening grass, or a new flower, or a robin splashing in the birdbath or backyard waterfall—always the bird taking the prize for the most vigorous of baths.
Recently, my 10-year-old son took a walk after a hard weekend rain and was gone for quite a while. I learned he was at the corner, at our bus stop, fascinated with the worms he noticed that had come up and were all over the pavement—and worried about them too. I explained it was their way of not drowning from the downpour but that the pavement is a dangerous place too as they can get squashed, easily eaten, or shriveled in the sun. Together we checked our rain gauge and saw one and a half inches waiting in it and understood why they hightailed it out of the earth.
It seems the grass became green almost overnight. My tulip bunches grew in height so quickly. The leaf buds on my shrubs and trees are broadening into leaves at a rapid rate. Eyes wide open, everyone: if we look away for a minute, we will miss it.
A sapling or a sucker? Either way, those buds are bursting with life!
I wonder where I might notice this much new growth in myself. Do I see the kind of growth within me that I marvel at in creation?
I want to be the person who is open to always learning, always growing, both personally and professionally. I want to deepen my practice of ministry and keep growing theologically. Sometimes I feel stagnant. I want to be more patient, more loving with my kids and husband. Many days I feel like I fail at this basic way of being. I want to show up in the world around me in new ways. I want to center the experiences of others who have often been marginalized and learn from them. I want to be quieter, talk less, and listen more to their stories. I am intentionally putting on the practice of “receive and believe” what I hear from women, from the unhoused, from people of color, from those living in poverty.
I recently had the opportunity to take the IDI—the Intercultural Development Inventory. It is a global assessment tool that reliably measures one’s intercultural sensitivity. It measures an individual’s or a group’s progression along a developmental path of increasing complexity in making sense of and responding to cultural differences.
After an orientation to it at my ministerial workplace, I was told that there would be two scores—where we think we are and where we actually are. And usually where we think we are is a much higher score than where we actually are. So I was prepared for this to be true for me as well.
I wept when I was given my results. I was on a Zoom call with the Director of Culture and Belonging of Catholic Charities, Twin Cities. My lip started to quiver as my eyes filled. I was not prepared for my two scores to match. I was not prepared to be in the highest stage of development possible on the continuum. I was not prepared to be told he could count on two hands the number of times he has met someone with an assessment like mine.
I did not know what to do with this information. Me, who does not travel. Me, who has not interacted with many cultures. Me, who was not even sure that I had a culture to name and claim when I sat through orientation. I was leveled. I was humbled. I told him how much this meant. I told him how hard I have been engaging racial equity work since the murder of George Floyd. I told him about having a biracial son and what it means to me to be a person who is open, growing, learning. I want to be curious, respectful, tolerant, and empathetic toward other cultures.
I got off the call and had to get away from the computer, still overcome with emotion. The biggest thought in my mind and on my heart was that somehow, someway I was becoming the person God wanted me to be. In some slow brew type of way, I was being more beautifully formed into God’s beloved daughter. I had been growing into who I was called to be, who God dreamed me to be.
It wasn’t the quick transformation work of spring that I have seen these weeks. It was slow work. Hidden work. Painful work. Work that seemed to have no progress to show and more questions than answers.
I share this with hesitation, not to brag. It feels validating, yes, but I have not arrived. I still have more work to do. It is the most important kind of interior work that I could be engaged in—and God’s handprint is all over my many attempts to engage more fully and more honestly in the racial equity and healing work needed within me. I want to show up in the world the way God needs me to.
Me, tightly twisted closed, but determined to open
As I think about it, maybe what seems like the quick work of spring isn’t quick either. Maybe it felt like the buds popped in a day, the grass greened overnight, and the tulips grew and burst forth quickly. But maybe that, too, was a slow and painful work I wasn’t privy to. A hidden work that only the Holy Spirit, the Giver of Life, knew of. Until we all could see the evidence.
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Loved this story as you described your progress in life. Doesn’t surprise me that your IDI scores are even, you have grown spiritually, personally & compassionately.
I love all our seasons, yes even winter, but spring is my favorite as well. Seeing small buds on the trees, turning into leaves & watching my plants in my perennial garden grow, knowing there is new life all around us.
Wendy- Tulips are one of my all time favorites. It's so colorful. My absolute favorite part about them is how firm yet supple they are, clean and cross at the same time, imposing yet welcoming altogether. When most other buds need multiple overlaying petals, tulips only need a few to make its point. And to stand their ground on that point. All the while holding its true colors. Few flowers out there really embody the unbroken spirit of the broken. Your writing is a good reminder of this. :)