March Comes In Like…
I love the poem to the right by Emily Dickinson. I love its declaration of how she welcomes March, as if she has been waiting and waiting for it to come. As if she couldn’t wait to celebrate it. March is her favorite month of the year. And when April tries to come and knock, she won’t have anything to do with it. She will not be pursued.
I’m not sure that most of us would choose March as our favorite month. Winter has already been around too long it seems and the promise of spring and Easter are not here yet.
What is your favorite time of the year? A time that fills you with joy, outside the usual suspects of Christmas, Easter and Summer vacation? Your birth month? An anniversary time? A fun family annual event?
During these winter months when the scenery seems unchanging, either grey, brown, white, or a mix of all three, we often long for the colors of spring, the warmth of the sun, or a blue sky that lets us know that summer is on its way. It’s a waiting game. We wonder if what we want will ever appear.
The season of Lent can be like that too. Forty days of waiting for Easter morning. But waiting doesn’t mean we do nothing. Lenten waiting is a time for taking stock, learning, deepening our hearts. A time for sitting with God. Waiting can be a gift. Which is why I think Emily doesn’t want April to come too soon. She wants the time to sit and wait and be in March. May the month of March for us this year be a time of waiting, learning, growing and stretching. A time when we will take the time to get to know ourselves better, and in the process perhaps deepen our relationship with God a little bit more.
Dear March - Come in - (1320) Emily Dickinson, 1830 - 1886
Dear March - Come in -
How glad I am -
I hoped for you before -
Put down your Hat -
You must have walked -
How out of Breath you are -
Dear March, how are you, and the Rest -
Did you leave Nature well -
Oh March, Come right upstairs with me -
I have so much to tell -
I got your Letter, and the Birds -
The Maples never knew that you were coming -
I declare - how Red their Faces grew -
But March, forgive me -
And all those Hills you left for me to Hue -
There was no Purple suitable -
You took it all with you -
Who knocks? That April -
Lock the Door -
I will not be pursued -
He stayed away a Year to call
When I am occupied -
But trifles look so trivial
As soon as you have come
That blame is just as dear as Praise
And Praise as mere as Blame -