Last week was glorious here in Utah. Green began showing through the brown lawns, and daffodils and crocuses peeked out of the flower beds along my driveway. I hadn’t even known they were there. The temperature was in the upper sixties, approaching 70, and it felt like the days of shoveling snow and bundling up were over.
And then a cold front hit, bringing with it not much snow, but bone-splintering cold. When I drove my wife to work the other day, snow was coming at us horizontally, the road a blur of white and gray in the darkness. By the next morning, the skies had cleared, and the thermometer in my van read 16 degrees.
So much for spring. But in some ways I’m glad to have this weird period of shifting weather, as if winter hasn’t totally accepted its demise and is fighting off the advance of spring. In Texas, we didn’t really have seasons, and winter, if you can call it that, was really just an extended cooler period with bare trees and yellowing lawns. The rest of the year was a mixture of hot and miserably hot.
Given the choice, I think I’ll take the seasons, as frustrating as they are. They remind me that I’m alive and part of something much bigger than me.