‘pressed drafted in April; polished + proofed for publishing in June on the backporch to the sounds of summer rain, The Wolves Radio on Spotify + the girls making breakfast with their dad.
It seems appropriate, now that we’ve experienced a couple of our first authentic autumns as a family, that we should come to know our first true spring.
Before life in Georgia, I understood spring to be a time for mothers, graduations, + fresh flowers aplenty. In the Lowcountry of South Carolina, it was primarily identified by Easter traditions, i.e. Lent, Holy Week, Easter Mass–not to be muddled with the oh-so-Southern Summer Sunday Fashion Show that to this day accompanies it —no white before that blessed day, y’all— followed by a large family potluck “on the island”. Spring always tended to collide with summer in the Lowcountry as it was a short season of mildly comfortable days that abruptly ended with the onrush of heat + humidity, also known more affectionately, as “beach season”.
I know now, spring elsewhere is a time for Mother Nature to really play with the thermostat; chilly starts end with warmth from a full day of sun. Brisk mornings finish with the accumulated warmth of the day’s sunrays. Despite the beauty of the season, there are still some days that are rainy + full of angst.
Somehow it is always just what the plants need because they bloom + grow despite the inconsistency of this season. There is beauty in this time– unrivaled beauty of everything that was once dead, coming back to life seemingly just in time to join in the dance, in rhythm with the winds of change.
Admittedly, it can be a jarring time, such as I have only ever read about in books or seen in movies. The fact is, spring can be like an extended winter in some parts of the country: “in like a lion and out like a lamb”, as they say. It is the harsh side of spring with which I have now become directly acquainted. Each spring that we have lived here so far, has not been without its signature spring storms. The meeting of winter cold fronts + warm spring air is the dark side of an otherwise bright + cheery time of year.
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I have always loved the roll of thunder that rumbles; it reminds me of the sheer might + power of our Creator. I regard the white flashes of lightning a spectacular display of nature, while I maintain a healthy respect of the pleasure + pain of living among tall pines. Trees may fall, but I don’t love the spectacle of creation nor the danger of weather any less, if anything I love it more. It reminds me how small we are in the grand scheme.
At the initial time of my writing, it seemed the weather had wrapped up further productions for the season, though we were not without loss. Severe weather in the wee hours of Good Friday morning left us with a mess on our hands; amidst the havoc of a few fallen trees, was our beloved tiny house laid out in a heap.
Before the sun came up, following an apparent microburst, this scene is what lay in wait outside our back door. My heart sank; it was just. . . gone?
How would the girls take this? How could we fix this? Most importantly, how lucky were we to have dodged the bullet of those 200+ ft. trees landing where we lay resting our head a couple of hours earlier. As the surreality of this otherwise routine spring weather event began to sink in, the proximity of the powerful system + the force with which it caused chaos, I began to see how close we were to a much larger disaster + it shook me to the core.
After a walk of the site with Ryan, albeit in the dark before dawn, + a cup of coffee, I was better able to process the reality of the situation + prepare myself to calmly explain it to the girls upon waking. A part of me held onto the hope that this wouldn’t leave them scarred, while I also hoped this event would become something they could remember with courage + love.
The tiny house was not without its problems. It was built many years before us + due to it’s very rudimentary construction, perhaps it was not a sound structure for our kids to be playing in. Lucky for this lot, we have a resident architect who promptly announced we would aim to rebuild. By the end of that first morning, despite all that had transpired, I felt a wry smile starting from deep within as a wave of gratitude surged + told me everything would be okay. Things were a mess, but we still had each other, our home was still in tact + we were going to have –so much fun– as a family with our new project of rebuilding. I look forward to sharing updates with everyone with the project the moment it begins– “the best is yet to be”!
This post dedicated to those who have lost so much more in the storms of spring;
may you always find the faith + strength to rebuild your home + dreams,
may you always see the lamb after the lion roars
+ may you forever know, you are never alone in your loss.
porches + pillowfights 