A Weather Report: Spring

I went outside and enjoyed the warmer temperatures today. It has been far too long since I did any trail running. My winter routine has kept me confined to an indoor track on campus. Like a caged animal, I would circle around and around, back and forth. I waited and watched the sky for the tell-tale signs of spring and the time when I could break loose from the indoor cage.

Slowly, the earth comes back to life after a cold winter.

I first knew spring was coming about a week ago. The day was cold and snowy. But, as I rode my bike home in the late afternoon hours, the clouds began to break in the west. I peddled through a heavy snow squall, and I watched as the sun broke free from the February sleet. I gazed in awe as its radiant face slipped behind Lolo Peak to the west of Missoula. This was my first glimpse of the sun since early February. It changed everything. Despite the falling snows and cold wind, the birds began to sing. At first it was only one voice. But soon an entire choir joined the lone soloist. It reminded me of how the birds would sing after a summer rain storm. At that moment, I knew the world was coming back to life. The seasons will change, and barrenness is always overshadowed by new life.

I was thinking about those birds as I ran down the trail today. The temperature has warmed considerably since that snowy afternoon just over a week ago. As I ran, the signs of spring seemed to be everywhere. Even the air smelled of rebirth and life. The wonders were stimulating, and I was so consumed by the sights, sounds, and smells, that I forgot to watch the ground in front of me. Only a quick hop made me avoid a rather large and nasty pile of animal droppings.

I turned to have a closer look at the pile before continuing on my way. I instantly recognized the droppings as those of a bear. They were fairly fresh. I guess this means that our furry friends are beginning to stir from hibernation. It won't be long until I see black bears wandering through the streets and yards of Missoula's outlying areas. (Which is something I've found as an intriguing, albeit sad, juxtaposition between their world and mine, but that's another story...)

The temperature warms. The birds sing. The bears go about their normal routines. The world is awakening with precious and fragile life. Creation begins again. If you look closely, if you listen hard enough, you will see the world rub its eyes and yawn. And, if you are very lucky, perhaps you will even see the face of God.

A Cult of Domesticity

The air was crisp and chilled on Christmas Eve as I ran down the highway. Several years passed since the last time my feet glided across this stretch of Iowa asphalt. Despite the fact that I'd only recently recovered from mono, I had to run outside on Christmas Eve. Particularly, I had to run on this mostly abandoned highway at sundown. I remembered what happened the last time, and I was curious if they were still waiting for me.

Three years ago, I ran down this same highway at twilight on a windy Christmas Eve. I passed a small gathering along the side of the road. As I approached, they all came to the fence and stared at me as I passed by. One by one, their heads turned as I passed within an arm's reach of their long faces and beady eyes. They looked so sad on Christmas. Yet they seemed to silently cheer me onward. It was as if my arrival had been foretold, and all gathered by the fence as I passed. Some of them gave snorts of approval. Others nodded their heads rapidly up and down as if bowing before my fast-moving presence. One even relived himself (What, were you expecting gold, frankincense, and myrrh?).

I ran past the solemn Christmas celebration and thought little of it. Only on my return trip did I feel uneasy and paranoid with the patient praise these fellows seemed to be giving me. The gathering was still motionless at the fence. Waiting. Looking down the highway at me once again. It was as if they knew I would return. I passed by, and once again every wood-like face turned in unison as I ran toward my grandparents' house. A few hundred yards later, I flipped a glance over my shoulder. They were still congregated at the fence watching me as I ran off into the sunset.

The last time I looked, they continued to watch as I slowly faded into the wanning Christmas Eve daylight.

Sure enough, the gathering was still waiting for me at the fence when I returned on Christmas Eve this year. I had been absent three years. Yet these simple creatures appeared to wait in the same position. They gathered at the fence and stared as I came down the highway. I wonder what they expected from me. A miracle? One who would save and deliver them from their bondage? The Meschiach?

Or maybe I read too much into the random acts of domesticated animals. Perhaps they were simply llamas. Yes, perhaps they were llamas with nothing better to do on Christmas Eve than wait by a fence for three years to see a skinny white boy break a 4:50 mile. A miracle? A messiah?

Foolish llamas!