I’d say the last week in our world has been unusually horrendous. That would be if I didn’t listen to the news regularly. I find myself saying and praying…”we have to turn a corner soon.” But we don’t. Perhaps we—at least as a nation—won’t. My tender-hearted soul reads the news and wants to crawl under the covers and hide. I am not proud to say that in free moments this winter I found myself doing a little of that. Crawling under the covers and hiding. Crawling under the covers and denying. Crawling under the covers and escaping into life with Claire and Frank or Rick and Michonne. (I don’t recommend either of these before nodding off to sleep…)

It was a fallow winter.

Fallow in body.

Fallow in soul.

Fallow.

The world seemed to be hurdling toward yet another disaster.

I found myself fallow.

I don’t even think I realized this until a few weeks ago. Sitting in a barricade of weeds and thorns, I realized how much my soul felt like that soil. Smothered in weeds and crowned with thorns. Here behind the bars of weed and thorn, I held the paradox of crucifixion and resurrection in my hands. I wept at the womb that I lost a year ago. I praised God for the new home and new life blooming all around.