Transformation

4ce86b6886b58681277934405f699138It’s here. Finally. Snow. We’ve been waiting for it, expecting it, watching the skies and the weather reports—this is Wisconsin after all—and it’s come.

It came in the night and transformed our yards, covered up any leftover leaf piles and our oddly green grass. All is changed. All looks new. All is covered over, fresh with promise.

Transformation is beautiful.

The snow is beautiful, at this moment, early in the morning, as I lounge on my couch and write. I love the snow, from inside. I love the idea of snow. But later, when I step outside to shovel or scrap off the car, or when the kids and the dog tramp back into the house after rolling around in it and leave puddles and salt and chaos, I’ll remember I don’t like snow. It’s messy and it leads to more messes.

Transformation is beautiful and messy.

A few months ago, we hosted three caterpillars that my daughter named, doted on, and supplied with fresh milkweed. In time, they transformed into chrysalis. And then we waited for the big moment. Waited and waited. Nothing happened, except the chrysalises shriveled up and turned grey. One almost made it, almost transformed. Through the transparent skin of the cocoon we could see the orange wings. When we dissected it for science, we uncovered a perfectly formed, perfectly beautiful set of wings. So why couldn’t it fly?

Transformation is beautiful and messy and unpredictable.

Christmas is over and we’ve powered through the rest of our cookies last night. The tree is looking bleak and I have to return one of the presents we bought the kids. The rush and hype and hurry is over and this is the part where I’m supposed to quip that the spirit of Christmas lives on, that we can keep the truth of Christmas in our hearts all year long. This is true, but I’m just not feeling it. Maybe you’re not feeling it either.

So here’s where I’m landing, where I’m planting my feet in this slippery time between Christmas and the New Year: the hope of transformation yet to come.

 We know that the whole creation has been groaning as in the pains of childbirth right up to the present time. Not only so, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly as we wait eagerly for our adoption to sonship, the redemption of our bodies. For in this hope we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what they already have? But if we hope for what we do not yet have, we wait for it patiently. (Romans 8: 22-25)

One Comment Add yours

  1. Waiting, sometimes groaning too, with you. Beautifully written.

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