The Beginning of Green

I’m not sure how to say what I want to say. Only that spring is at last returning, but don’t look up to find it. It’s not in the sky, or even the trees. 

Green always begins in the ground. Beside the mud puddles, pushing up under the beer cans the fishermen toss aside, creeping steadily through the rot of last fall’s leftovers. 

Spring doesn’t arrive as some lofty ideal, descending in glory from the heavens. 

It’s a slow but steady thaw. It endures the tramp of muddy boots. This green simply perseveres, through frosts and false starts and one more day of mittens. 

No, green begins in lowly places.

I just want you to know, that if your world hasn’t burst into technicolour bloom yet, it’s ok. It’s ok if your leaves are still hiding, tight in their buds. It’s ok if the only spring you see is down in the ditch. 

It’s coming. Do not despise a humble beginning. Green always begins in the ground. 




Rise Heart! The Lord is Risen!

Happy Easter one and all! I love this poem by George Herbert, from his work “The Temple,” written in 1663. It is simply called “Easter.” (Thanks to Malcolm Guite for including it in his poetry collection for Lent and Easter, The Word in the Wilderness. This is where I discovered it.)

The older English comes across in some of the archaic spellings, and you can hear echoes of Psalm 57, a psalm traditionally read as part of morning prayer on Easter Sunday.

And for all those who have played their part in musical offerings this weekend, it is a beautiful reminder that all our praise originates in Christ’s work on the cross.

¶ Easter

Rise heart; Thy Lord is risen. Sing his praise
Without delayes,
Who takes thee by the hand, that thou likewise
With him mayst rise:
That, as his death calcined thee to dust,
His life may make thee gold, and much more, just.

Awake, my lute, and struggle for thy part
With all thy art.
The crosse taught all wood to resound his name,
Who bore the same.
His stretched sinews taught all strings, what key
Is best to celebrate this most high day.

Consort, both heart and lute, and twist a song
Pleasant and long:
Or, since all musick is but three parts vied
And multiplied,
O let thy blessed Spirit bear a part,
And make up our defects with his sweet art.

I got thee flowers to straw thy way;
I got me boughs off many a tree:
But thou wast up by break of day,
And brought’st thy sweets along with thee.

The Sunne arriving in the East,
Though he give light, & th’ East perfume;
If they should offer to contest
With thy arising, they presume.

Can there be any day but this,
Though many sunnes to shine endeavour?
We count three hundred, but we misse:
There is but one, and that one ever.

~ George Herbert




The Snake and the Swallowed King

And the LORD God said unto the serpent: I will put enmity between thee and the woman, and between thy seed and her seed; it shall crush thy head, and thou shalt bruise his heel. (Genesis 3:14-15)

On this God-forsaken Friday, the serpent-bitten king is lifted up for all to see, the venom of death slowly paralyzing the seed of the woman. He appears pinned by the viper’s teeth, powerless in the grip of its poison.

He is the only one able to resist the serpent’s lies, old as Eden, and yet the only one able to drink the bitter drug to its dregs.

Eve rolls in her grave, and Mary weeps at the foot of the enemy’s staff of torture. The woman can reach out and grasp the bloodied heel of her son, feel the life draining out through her fingers. Now she knows the piercing that was to come. Now her heart breaks, and with it all creation, as all the promises, the very protoevangelion itself, seem smashed to pieces.

The Roman sword only proves the point – the enemy has at last swallowed his victim whole. Jesus disappears into death.

And yet . . .

What seems crushing defeat is a cunning twist of events on this hill of the skull.

For the serpent cannot be defeated by flesh wounds. His undoing must be from the inside out. And there is only one who can descend into the stinking belly of the old liar and live to tell the tale.

The sting of death is sin, and this is the sinless One – sinless to his final death rattle. As he breathes his last, he is swallowed down the human-shaped chasm of the serpent’s throat.

The snake has taken the bait. He thought Jesus’ humanity would be his weak spot, like all other sons of Adam and daughters of Eve. But this second Adam is not like the first, oh thanks be to God. In the writhing pit of filth, that hellhole where God is not, comes the God-Man Himself.

His humanity allows him entrance. His divinity assure him victory.

The snake’s insatiable hunger is his undoing. A hunger that would swallow God whole will not go unchallenged.

And now from within, the snake-bitten son’s mightiest weapon is unsheathed – perfect, pure, self-giving, all-giving, all-consuming love. It begins to pulse and throb, the only heartbeat in this tomblike darkness. It begins to burn, like glowing needles, like fiery double-edged swords, like raging infernos from the heart of the earth. And there, in the midst, is one walking like the son of God!

Only he is not walking, he is waging war. He is taking hold of every lie, every rebellion, every sin, every disease, every shadow, every soul-sucking power of darkness, and ripping them all to shreds. He is cutting out the forked tongue from its root. And the serpent writhes in agony and wishes he could spit the hell-bent Hero out, but he cannot.

And when the swallowed king at last destroys the ancient predator, he does it from the inside out, emerging on the third day from the putrid vomit of the snake, and not one hair on his head is singed.

The serpent’s power is no more, but the final move, this will be done in the daylight for all the world to see. The scaly beast can no more even whimper in the dust when the Warrior raises his heel, and with a heaven-shaking roar crushes the skull of the snake.

Oh, death, where is your sting?
Oh, hell, where is is your victory?
Oh, snake, where is your tongue?

Death has been swallowed up in victory!

And what is the sign of this victory?
The God-Man lifted up on a cross.
The God-Man who even yet bears the scar on his heel, but at whose feet lies the skull of the snake.

This is love. Behold your God.

Look, and believe!
Look, and be healed!
Look, and be freed from the power of the curse!
Look, and live!

And as Moses lifted up the serpent in the wilderness, even so must the son of man be lifted up: That whoever believeth in him should not perish, but have everlasting life.
(John 3:14-15)



Blue Beggars

On the morning of the first day of March, greedy jays are at the feeder, first to find the crumbs from the master’s table. Persistent little beggars, these blue crested squawkers. Alarm bells of the forest, cocky in their chinstraps, flashing into everyone’s business. Subtlety is not their colour.

They are almost too gaudy for my liking.
Too pushy.
Too blue.

As if reading my thoughts, one starts to scold me through the window.

I can’t help it, I shrug back. I didn’t grow up with blue jays in my neck of the northern woods. They were more like a cartoon character in my mind.

When I go downstairs, the kitchen is hopping with my own little birds, eager for their breakfast. Brew the coffee, slice the bread, pour the milk, wipe the sticky fingers. Squawk!

On the fridge door hangs a calendar, one of those freebies the insurance company sends in the mail, with reminders to clean the chimney and change the smoke alarm batteries. I’ve always loved the swoosh of flipping up the new month’s page.

And what symbol of our fair isle should greet me this particular March? Three guesses, and the first two don’t count.

There he sits, perched on an ice covered branch, shiny eye turned into the kitchen, daring me to ignore him.

Persistent little beggars.

I’ve learned to pay attention to the things that reappear in my field of vision. So I stare back.

And I’m reminded of others who were praised for their persistence, and even audacity. A Canaanite woman, out of her league, begging for a daughter in the grip of darkness. A man whose cupboards are bare, banging down his neighbour’s door at midnight. A chronically ill woman, mustering just enough faith to reach for Jesus’ dusty hem.*

They get what they need because of their persistence. Bold in their hunger. Like blue on white, they show up and won’t shut up till they get what they’ve come for.

Sometimes life is a matter of timing. There’s a time to hibernate, and a time to make your presence known. A time to wait, and a time to reach. A time to ask, seek, knock, defiant of winter’s scarcity.

I sit down with my toast at the dining room table, looking out to where the feeder hangs. All is grey and brown, save for dashes of jaunty blue. I’ll keep my eye on them.

Maybe I’ll learn to love these flashy creatures after all.

*Matt. 15:22-28; Luke 11:5-10; Mark 5:24-34. 





Image copyright info: By Mdf (Own work) [GFDL ( or CC-BY-SA-3.0 (], via Wikimedia Commons

In the woods

I took myself to the woods today. My head was pounding, the walls of my brain squeezing in, trapping all that pressure behind my eyes. I needed to breathe.

It was a sharp winter day, so I put on wooly socks, snowpants, parka, boots, hat and mitts. I forced myself out the door, over the crusted snow of the backyard, down the icy stone steps to the track of the old road. With a brilliant blue overhead, and a smooth white canvas before me, I began to break a trail.

Past the abandoned house, the chicken shed, the low hanging limbs of the ancient apple trees, looking for the secret path to the big pines at the edge of our property. I wrestled with branches felled in the winter storms, breaking my way through the brittle debris, till I came to the open air beneath the evergreens.

There is a spacious silence at the feet of these wizened sentinels. I found the low hanging crook of some deciduous tree, snuggled next to one of the pines, and climbed up, bracing myself between the two trees. I could hear my breath in the hood of my parka, heavy and ragged.

I lay on my back and looked to the sky.

Be still.

The branch underneath became my spine, and my heartbeat settled. Slowly, my lungs found a rhythm. Without the pounding in my ears, I began to hear the soundtrack of the forest.

A squirrel scolding a few trees over. A crow across the river, downstream. A lone chickadee’s chirp far to the east. The tide-like motion of the great swaying branches. The crackling and popping of the river ice. And like a pulse beneath it all, the breath of the river.

Rooted, yet suspended, the weight I had been carrying melted away. Something bigger is holding me. 

Half a dozen pine trees, a handful of birches, and a mess of willows. Not much of a woods, all things considered. Not much of the wild. But enough. Enough to recalibrate my brain, enough to infuse my body with an “other” energy.

Perhaps one tree is all I need to uproot my perspective. A single determination to get out of my own head and find new oxygen. There is something bigger, thank God. The wild is closer than I think.