NOTE: I wrote this back in March, but forgot about it and just now decided to post it, just as spring has finished and summer has begun. I hope its message of hope still resonates during what continues to be a difficult time.
Hello, Spring. It’s been a while. Fourteen years to be exact. I’ve spent those years living other seasons—dry seasons, wet seasons, smoky seasons, honeymoon period, language learning season, stomach-parasite season, young baby season, homeschooling season.
But you and I have lived separate lives. It was hard sometimes to even believe you still existed, that anything but 90 degrees with 90 percent humidity still lived in this world.
When we first moved to Colorado from Indonesia, a friend sent this to me in a package.
And now, just like that, we’re together again.
We saw each other briefly almost a year ago, when our family left Indonesia and came to Colorado. I remember, standing in our Indonesian house, looking through our light cotton clothes and thinning pants in dressers we soon sold, wondering what to pack for the plane ride here.
I messaged my sister, Amy. “I know it’s dumb, but I forget. What’s spring in Colorado like? What should I expect?”
She’s thoughtful and eloquent and knew how hard leaving Indonesia was on me, how much seemed to be dying around me. I kept her What’s App message, played it a few times, then typed out her exact words and stored it in my computer.
“There’s so much new life and new hope in spring, but it’s little—not delicate, but little,” she said. “But it’s fighting against winter to bring spring. And there’s a lot of back and forth. There’s wet snow—sometimes you get those in spring. But then it’s 60 degrees and there are buds on the trees.”
I barely saw the buds and simply shrugged at the snows. Mostly I spent that spring either stunned or numb or scared or sad. I didn’t feel like I was fighting. I wondered, at times, if I was even surviving.
“Give it one year,” my husband Brad said at Month One of our transition, and then at Month Two, and Month Three. “In a year, you’ll be able to look back and see how far we’ve come.”
And yes, we’ve come a long way. First house we’ve ever bought. New jobs. Good schools for the kids. New friends in my contact list. A pile of pictures I’ve drawn to process the grief that is finally lessening.
I’ve adjusted to how to hand money to people here. (Either hand is fine. No need to use only the right.) I remember now to firm up my grip for handshakes. (Don’t touch hand to heart after.) And I now drive confidently on the right side of the road. (Stop freaking out at these high speeds on the Interstate.)
But Spring, I’d forgotten something about you: daylight savings time.
Which one are you? Spring forward, fall back.
We remembered that you were going to steal an hour, just in the nick of time, just as we were falling asleep on Saturday night, just as I was feeling proud that we were getting to bed early to get enough sleep before waking up to visit a church we were trying.
Don’t worry, I didn’t blame you, Spring.
“Stupid American tradition,” I grumbled to Brad, as, just like that, my full eight hours of sleep dropped to seven.
But then on Monday, I picked up the kids from school and you were dressed in bright blue skies and high yellow sun, and I apologized to America and thanked you. We used our extra hour of sunlight to go on a walk through the neighborhood to the park. The kids scooted on wheels with mountains behind them and climbed on brightly-colored walls. And later, while I finished cleaning up dinner, some new neighborhood friends joined my kids as they drew chalky pictures of mountains and skyscrapers and monsters and flowers on our driveway. Your sun set bright pink out the window.
The rest of the week, we planned on it. Homework could wait. We hiked and went to the park and played laser tag outside and met neighbors because everybody was out. I don’t know how you did it, but spring forward gave us so much more than it took.
But less than a week later, the next storm has come. The virus that was making its way around the world has stopped our own. No more school. No pajama day for Renea. No field trip for Evan.
Brad’s new airline pilot job seems uncertain. Our parents’ health up for debate. Our already tight budget seems impossible. Yet another upheaval for our still-adjusting kids.
Spring forward. Fall back.
In many ways, our life overseas prepared us for this moment. We’ve lived through evacuation plans for smoky season and ethnic tensions. Scary sicknesses and hospital visits. No electricity for weeks due to huge storms. Risky bush flying job. We’ve kept “go bags,” made contingency plans and gone without showers.
We’ve been flexible and faced disappointment, felt scared and learned to be brave.
And probably most impactful of all, we’ve had the enormous privilege of watching Indonesian communities survive and live again after tsunamis, earthquakes, fires, floods, loss, sickness, abuse, poverty, devastation. We’ve seen them come together, care for one another, give when they had very little themselves, rebuild life, and spring back. Again and again.
But I didn’t expect something so scary to happen here…and to happen everywhere. America was my rock, my safe place, my security. And now, since our life overseas, I see much more than what’s right in front of me, which is usually a gift, but now seems overwhelming. I wonder about already vulnerable communities, single moms, previously traumatized kids, and places with limited resources and maxed-out health care systems on a good day. I think about our friends-like-family in Indonesia and my pregnant friend in Italy.
So, needing some perspective this morning, I searched for “Spring, Amy” in my computer and my sister’s words popped up. These are the rest of her thoughts on the subject.
“Spring is fighting between the elements, but there’s hope and warmth. And there’s nothing like that hope.”
Spring forward, fall back.
Spring forward again.