I step outside and the grass gives beneath me, with a sound somewhere between a crunch and crackle. It's finally that time of year when the frost doesn't melt away with the heightening of the sun. Instead, it maintains a solid grip on the earth and all it's foliage.
As I walk down familiar frozen paths I behold deciduous leaves and conifer needles framed by icy shards. They glint and sparkle in the sunlight in ways that a camera can't quite capture. And I think about how remarkable it is that my two imperfect eyes can comprehend the beauty of this winter world when my phone camera fails me. "Wonderful" and "beautiful" and the words that consistently come to mind even though I know the frost encased wonders are, for all intents and purposes, trapped in a state of dying.
But it is here, upon observing leaves set in a state of shimmering decay, that a truth is impressed upon me.
In death we will be made
into something new. And we will wait.
We will wait like the captured, glazed forest waits for the lion's roar of spring. We will wait for the fullness of the seasons to pass and for a trumpet's call to sound. And then we will feast together and wait no more.
