Spring In Missouri
I got to see the “big show” this week. This is an annual late April and early May changing of the view from our back deck. For twenty-six years we have been treated to two equally spectacular but vastly different views. Our back lot falls off precipitously to a river below, thick with trees, we can barely see through the foliage and can’t make out the riverbank. In the winter, we can see across the small valley, the flight of hawks hunting around our creek, viewing the distant forested hills of the State Park. We live close to town, and while the Columbia, Missouri city limits creep ever closer, the old guy who owns most of the small valley, classed a flood plane, keeps enough cattle to allow the land to be taxed as farmland and the rest of us living in the illusion that we too are “rural folk.”
The truth is, of course, most of the homes are owned by doctors and lawyers and such. These are folks who like being surrounded by trees, keep their neighbors at arms length, and do their farming in small flower plots or tomato pots. When we first moved here everyone mowed his or her own lawn; often, the only time I saw my neighbor to the north was when he was on his bright green John Deere riding mower. Now, I guess we’ve all grown older or just too busy; men from Central America mow the lawns.
But spring in Missouri is wonderful and these last two weeks are the best. Overnight our winter view of the valley fades in a shower of green buds and then in what seems but a day, completely disappears, replaced by an emerald sea stretching from the blue patch way above our roof line down to the sloping leaf covered hillside. This magical change from winter brown to summer green remains an annual and stunning surprise, reminding me how unmindful I am, or perhaps, just forgetful. The regularity of the stars and the seasons were a daily concern, a preoccupation really, to my farmer grandparents. For we modern city folk, whatever our rural pretensions, this magnificent demonstration of rebirth and renewal ought to remind us of our unhealthy preoccupations with self and our shameful lack of attention to the created order.
We may sell this home soon. We bought it over 26 years ago, thinking we would stay but a few years. We raised a family here and have even housed grandchildren—there are many memories in these rooms and laughter in the walls. But looking out at those old oaks and maples, sporting their brand spanking new green finery, I am reminded and grateful that the God that cares for his beautiful creation, the God that delights in each bud and distant star, the God whose regularity is but the faintest track of His mighty deeds, is the providential keeper of my home, my loved ones, and this chaotic world.
My great nephew was one this week; the stock market recovered a bit: and our doctor exams came and went without incident, all good things, but not the best. The biggest blessing was losing the view of the valley, and gaining the buds: for in the loss was a fulfillment of a promise. I hope my children and my grandchildren will never lose the ability to see those buds in spring or to know that change brings loss, and gain. For me, watching the change was a relief. To see the show was, as always, stunning. This year, more than in the past, I remembered the many previous shows I had seen and was overcome with gratitude. Thankful that I had been granted such joy, blessed to know a little more of the God for whom the, “Heavens declare His glory,” and relieved that the God who so faithfully cares for His creation holds us in His palm.