Friday Five: Signs of Hope

After a Lent-induced break from the Friday Five for a few weeks, I'm jumping back in with this one...

Over at RevGals, Songbird writes:

My beloved speaks and says to me: “Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away; for now the winter is past, the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth; the time of singing has come, and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land. The fig tree puts forth its figs, and the vines are in blossom; they give forth fragrance. Arise, my love, my fair one, and come away. Song of Solomon 2:10-13

In the late, late winter, as the snow begins to recede here in Maine, we begin to look almost desperately for signs of spring, signs of hope that the weather has turned and a new day is on the horizon. For those of us in the Northern Hemisphere, Easter and Spring twine inextricably, the crocuses and daffodils peeking through the Earth as we await the risen Christ.

Share with us five signs of hope that you can see today or have experienced in the past.

1. The Sanctuary Window Tree
In our fairly modern sanctuary, we have a very large skylight running down the entire length of the roof right over the altar and pulpit. Outside this skylight is a tree - deciduous of some kind, though I'm not sure exactly what it is. Part of what I love about this tree is the way it announces the seasons as you watch it week after week; it's lush green in the summer, yellow in the fall, bare in the winter, and now, in these days, it's beginning to show the first signs of leaf-growth again. Of course, all the trees are doing the same thing, but that one is a sort of mine-canary for me. In a good way.

2. Lenten midweek services
I almost always love midweek Lenten services, for a variety of reasons: there's opportunity for creativity in worship planning (there always is, of course, but somehow it's easier to pull off in a short series like these); I love evening worship in general; it's a more quiet, contemplative service; no lectionary constraints (although I like the lectionary as a general rule). This year, the Lenten midweek services were my first 'solo flight' in the new parish: the first time I've been completely in charge of a worship opportunity. We're doing a Taize-inspired service ("Taize with training wheels" is my theme), and it's been exceptionally well-received. And we get to end every service with one of my favorites - even though it's not technically Taize:

Take, o take me as I am;
summon out what I shall be.
Set your seal upon my heart

and live in me.

I could sing that all night.

3. This poem.

I blogged it once before, but it's been such a perfect piece for me this Lent that I'm going to do it again: Breakthrough, by J. Barrie Shepherd.

This lenting
is a longing, looking,
isolating and locating process,
a passing of the time between
what has to be, what may become,
a late, last, solitary lingering
among the soiled and crusted snowbanks
of deep-drifted hurt and disappointment
seeking out those tender-tough new shoots
that pierce the calloused surface
of all losing with the agony
of life becoming green again.

4. New steps on the baby quest.
I've kept mostly quiet on the baby-quest front for awhile on this blog, for several reasons. We're holding things closely right now. But there are many signs of hope, and have been, for the past several months. Although that's all I'd like to say (and, to be clear, no - I'm not pregnant), it's a more hopeful place than it's been for a long time. For which I am profoundly grateful.

5. Chocolate. EVERYWHERE.
Yes, I get that the Easter Bunny is some kind of pagan fertility symbol co-opted by a consumerist culture hell bent on unhealthy snacks, sugar obsessions, and a complete disregard for the true scandal of the gospel of resurrection.

And you know what? I don't really care. I love me some chocolate. And Easter is a tiny peek of heaven for all chocoholics. Bring on the pagans. I'm ready.