Some Birds Sing in Winter

I remember the beginnings of spring from the earliest years of my youth. Having patiently (or not so patiently) endured the desperate months of bitter cold and the wretched, lingering cover of darkness, the signs of imminent and glowing (shimmering, even) life thrust into the open, and descended gloriously upon us. Finally spring was upon us! Flowers started to bloom, and sprout from the ground with new vigor. Each year it seemed a bit more vibrant and forceful than the previous. The buds on the trees began to take form with a fresh newness and fragrance that could (from all appearances) flood an entire valley. It was a surprisingly sweet and pleasant aroma that (it seemed to me at the time), would endure forever. Indeed, spring was surely the time to rejoice and sing exuberantly, with expectations about what was already upon us and what was imminently to be. I don’t recall sorrow in the spring. Even if it came, it was quickly overshadowed and consumed by the more prominent and fitting joys. In fact, the number of birds singing seemed to multiply exponentially in the spring. And what displays greater joy than this? I saw many more birds in spring than in the brisk of winter, when birds are as scarce as the warmth of the noonday sun and as distant as the planets of other galaxies (that you know of only by reading books). Yet what if there came about a great reversal and winter came upon winter or spring gave way to winter—and seemingly forever? All the bearing through the winter which the hopeful expectancy of spring made, well, bearable would soon be null and purposeless amidst the barren wasteland of dreams forgotten and hearts wrecked. A sinking hopelessness (as with a ship that is forced under by a strong arm) would reside where expectation once inhabited. We would be confronted by a grave tragedy under a seemingly adverse deity. Would we ever see the large number of joyfully and similarly tuned birds again? Would they forsake all their delightful tunes if winter became the new normal? They might sing in another land, but they certainly would not return here – not to my own. Why would they? How could anyone bear to live in such a land? Could this be a reflection of what happens similarly to us throughout our lives? Some winters appear to be without end, as if the spring will never come. And experience tells us that (for some, at least) the spring really never does come. I read a report of a young man who was so depressed that he took his own life. He seemed to have everything in life (money and fame), but could not live. His winter was too cold and dark. The birds were no longer there to serenade him (if ever they really were). He was all alone (even as all eyes were upon him). Perhaps you are also very much alone as you read this. Perhaps a blistery winter is upon you, and the frigid ice has consumed every comfort you have ever known. What shall we do when we are stuck in such a winter? We might look to what has comforted us before. Perhaps it is our child, spouse, or dear friend, and now one or all are gone. A painful blow strikes. We would go for a quiet stroll, but now we can only do that when accompanied by a prison guard. Strike again! We would take some time to get our business in order, but now that the bank has taken all from us or others have stolen it by unjust gain, there is nothing to turn to. Strike! I feel like I am out of this game (and that is precisely how it feels—like some cruel game). How can I continue? Why should I continue? These are topics that we will discuss in the coming pages. We will also discuss joy. Joy? Remember that in winter, there are always some birds that remain in song even as the others hide themselves. Even as the frigid air displaces many, they sit faithfully. You may think this is all ‘for the birds.’ But I trust you won’t put down this book (or your hope) too quickly. When is it better to read and reflect than before a blazing fireplace on a cold, wintry evening? My hope is that this is what you hold now—a surrounding and pursuing fire, bringing the light and warmth of Scripture to your cold and forsaken circumstances. Surely it is a rare trait for one to sing joyfully in the winter or deep sorrow of life, even as it is equally uncommon for most birds to sing outside of the warm seasons; for them to sing dutifully and with a certain heartfelt joy in the depths of winter, in the bitter and frigid cold. Most will migrate to another land. They will not sing through the winter. Others, like hibernating bears, will choose to burrow into the earth for the season. They do not sing joyfully, or at all—but snooze, or cower under the heartless blows. Still others give in altogether, either through bringing about a premature death or refusing to live (a death to the world and/or their forsaken hopes and dreams). Yet some will sit dutifully on their dry and barren nests, and sing as if they knew no greater joy than the present turmoil. Some sing more beautifully when all around them is crushed and their spirits are strangled and ruthlessly torn than when all is livened in comfort and green with life. Suffering, death, the depth and darkness of winter, and the uncertainty of when and if it might end, seem to have no effect on them. These things may even have a positive effect on them. And they sing exuberantly (and with loud voice) their new songs of great joy and thanksgiving. What could these birds possibly be thankful for? It is not that their circumstances are pleasant, that they have lost little, or that what they no longer possess was unimportant and inconsequential. No, that is not it. Rather, they sing because they have made an exchange for something better, more permanent, more precious, of greater worth, and lovelier. They sing because they see something brighter than the dim, flickering, and fleeting light of the present world. They have a light within that shines brighter than the light that has been vanquished without. Not even death can remove this permanent (eternal) light from their frame, try as it might.