One year ends. Another begins. Part of the heart reaches for the future with hope. Another part hides, anxious of all that is to come. Unsure. Timid. Like a child peeking behind the skirts of safety and warmth.
A chapter is closed, the words written, the tales told, are forever set in an ink that will not erase. History.
A new chapter begins. Will it tell of death or life? A blend of both?
Winter stretches ahead, like snow white carpet rolling to encompass the days ahead. When will spring begin? And when it does, what will it hold? New promise? New life? Or only a moment of sunshine and warmth before shadows obscure the sky?
Does one thing have to end for another to begin? Must a tree lose its leaves, as the wondrous colors fall to the ground? Scatter. And die. Must it wait deathlike, life hidden beneath the gnarled windtorn branches? Is death necessary for the cycle to begin again?
And what of life itself?
Does the veiled whisper of the seasons, cycling through death toward life, tell of something greater than this life can ever fully tell?
Does the stark tree, naked branches lifted toward heaven, convey a message deeper than the sap that runs through its roots, sending spring surging through its branches … a shoot here, a bud there, then color blossoming everywhere?
Do they tell of a message that echoes on the border of eternity?
Do they tell of a life that was broken, bruised, and torn, before it finally ended? And rose again?
Do they tell of the promise that rippled to the edges of the universe when the Life that died and rose again overcame the power of death, and gave those who believe that same death-defying power?
One life ends. Another begins. And the Story continues.