The Time of Singing

I was heading out the door intending to make a quick run to the grocery store when I heard it. Faintly, far-off, but there it was. I stopped mid-stride, then sunk gracelessly to the driveway until I was sitting crosslegged on the warm pavement, ears open wide. A long moment later it was there again, echoing in the air from a far-off tree. Three notes, three more, three more, cheeriup, cheerily. A robin. I sat and listened, trilling on the inside as the bird sang and sang, ushering out winter and making way for spring.

I’ve only just learned about the magic of robins. Before moving to cold Michigan I had always seen them as cheerful little yard birds without much significance. My friend the bird lover has been teaching me otherwise. Robins are spring’s honor guard. At the end of a bleak, cold winter, a gray and orange ball of feathery fluff is a crack of light in the darkness, a pledge that soon, soon spring will come.

For behold, the winter is past; the rain is over and gone. The flowers appear on the earth, the time of singing has come, and the voice of the turtledove is heard in our land. Song of Solomon 2:11-12

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On Easter morning the kids and I pulled quietly out of the garage into the dark morning to head to the sunrise service. Their eyes were bright with excitement at being up so early. We entered the church building with that mysterious pre-dawn feeling, snuffling the perfume of lilies and hyacinths and murmuring understated Happy Easters to the other worshippers.

The sanctuary remained dark and quiet and still until the moment of that joyous pastoral proclamation: Christ is risen! And as the lights came up the congregation boomed back with one voice, glad and loud, He is risen indeed! Alleluia! It was as if we had been waiting, watching for a crack of resurrection light, ears bent intently to catch the sound of the grave being opened. The dim introspection of Lent was over. It was Easter, and there was joy. Alleluia.

It’s two weeks later. Easter morning is fading with the foil-wrapped candy in my children’s baskets. The jelly bean hunt is over; the breathless morning has mellowed into a series of gray days that refuse to grow warm. It’s easy to tuck the holiday into a box like so many others, putting it away until next year and wondering just a little why it seemed like such a big deal at the time. It’s just a holiday.

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There are robins all over my yard now. Their bright bellies are easy to spot and they do have a nice, cheerful song, but still, I’m tempted to say, they’re just a bird.

Just a bird? My robin-loving friend would be appalled at my saying such a thing. Robins are a lifeline. They are hope, and promise, and a celebration of having made it through another cold winter. Even in the middle of summer, I can look at the happy bird with the funny little run and remember the straining ears, the vigilant eyes, the rush of joy when I finally heard that three-note call. They are a connection to those days of longing, of looked-for joy and a heart clinging to the promise that the light and life of spring is just ahead.

Easter, just a holiday? Just a day to be celebrated briefly and then put away until next year? 

Easter morning is a lifeline. Our alleluias are not just a celebration of something that happened two thousand years ago. They are a thanksgiving for all that our loving Father is doing, has done, and will do in our lives. Our alleluias are hope, a desperate grip on the promise that there will be an end to the winters of our hearts. Each Sunday morning, each new day, is a little Easter, connecting us to the promise of light and life ahead. Each straggling strand of Easter grass caught in my carpet sings a song of joy, saying don’t forget. Don’t forget the days of waiting; don’t forget the burst of jubilation when you once again shouted the praises of Him who died and rose for you.

The time of singing has come. The voice of the robin is heard in our land. Christ has risen. Cheeriup, cheerily, and alleluia.

First printed in the Alpena News, April 13, 2013