The Quiet Work
This morning the sky hung low and gray, the kind of early April light that feels more like February than spring. The yard is a patchwork of mud, thawing earth, and quite a lot of the last stubborn remnants of snow. Northern Michigan takes its time letting go of winter. Even now—on the threshold of spring—the cold still presses in, as if reluctant to release its hold. And yet, beneath all this heaviness, something has shifted. The air smells different. The ground feels looser. Life is moving in ways visible and not.
It’s official. I’ve moved into the new studio and fully furnished this 750 square feet of beautiful open, airy, light space. This called for a million decisions that may be right or wrong and I won’t know until I'm fully working in the space. The furniture and Billie’s flowers have arrived. I'm ready to hang paintings in here. And today I paint! It reminds me that faith, even in spring, is an act of trust.
Good Friday always carries a quiet weight—a stillness, a pause, a breath held between sorrow and hope. It’s my favorite service of the year, typically a silent service at my old church. The solemnness speaks for itself. No one has to shout. The power of that silence.
It mirrors this season so well. We stand in what looks like barrenness, believing in a renewal we cannot yet fully see. We wait through the long winter of our own becoming, trusting the smallest signs: the softened soil, the widening light, the way the rain ushers in its own kind of cleansing.
Lately I’ve found myself noticing the subtler metaphors of renewal—A moment of unexpected ease. A conversation that warms something new. It comes up over and over as I sit in this quiet space of my studio. The simple joy in using my grandmother's silver for my every day. I’ve ordered flowers from Billie, a new friend and local florist to celebrate week after week. I’m committed to surrounding myself with beauty.
After a long winter, receiving tenderness can feel almost risky, as if joy might be too fragile to hold. But these early signs of spring ask us to open anyway, to allow gentleness back into the places that have endured so much. And sometimes there's a sudden resurrection, a miracle. That’s what this studio is to me. It’s as if it came out of nowhere at just the right time.
But renewal doesn’t always arrive all at once. It comes the way thawing happens here: slowly, unevenly, with days that contradict the forecast and mornings that feel like setbacks. But still—it comes. The bulbs tucked under frozen soil don’t doubt the season. The birds return even when the branches are bare. Nature doesn’t require certainty to begin again, and perhaps we don’t need certainty either.
When we were kids, my mother always sewed us matching dresses for Easter Sunday. Often sleeveless sundresses even though we might have to wear boots to church–certainly coats. We were just so ready for the good weather and long days of sunshine.
Maybe you’re in a place where joy feels tentative. Where hope feels too delicate to name. Where you’re not sure if it’s time to open your hands or keep them folded close. But beginnings don’t need to be sturdy to be real. They just need to be welcomed. Faith, in this season, looks like trusting the small signs, believing that renewal can find you even before you feel ready for it.
What tender beginning is asking for your trust right now?
May this Good Friday hold you gently. And may these early April days remind you that even the smallest signs of spring are invitations to believe in what’s already on its way.
