Derren and I have nicknamed the feeling that accompanies the first two months of the year: “the jan-febs.” The jan-febs ooze through every crack in your otherwise well-orchestrated life, freezing and thawing, making the cracks bigger and bigger, driving a wedge between you and your enchantment with the world.
As the latter half of the jan-febs, February is the final boss to be defeated before the bliss of springtime settles in, and I become reacquainted will all things good and lovely.
I. HATE. THE. MONTH. OF. FEBRUARY.
For one, it’s cold. But it isn’t snowflakes cozy cuddle sweater hot chai latte with almond milk let’s drive around and go look at Christmas lights-cold. The novelty has long worn off, and each day is a seemingly endless trudge into the gray, 35 degree void, where each day is the same and the sun makes her joyless departure promptly at 5 o’clock. It’s like something out of the Truman Show. I think. I’ve never seen it.
Another thing I hate about February is that it’s VALENTINE’S DAY. Love, marketed to the masses, as something to be won if you have just a little more money, use this makeup to become just a little more sexy, display your affection by making these grand gestures that will make you just a little bit more desirable. A capitalist scheme to pit us against each other in the name of comparison LOVE. A cheap substitute for the real thing. And we’re all buying into it.
Something about the whole month just feels OFF. My lips are dry and cracked. I’ve been wearing the same sweatshirt for like, four days. Everyone around me is calling out sick. My skin hasn’t seen the sun in what feels like years. It’s too cold to go for a walk, and on the occasion that it’s not, it’s so dreary outside that I end up feeling even WORSE than when I was inside. It’s the shortest month of the year, but I think it might never end.
Can I tell you a secret?
No, come closer, I don’t want everyone to know.
I didn’t hate February this year.
I didn’t hate it at all.
There were a lot of really cool moments in February. The girls went to Wilmington, TWICE. I got to meet so many cool women at Apostles and dang, I love this place! I spent a lot of time with my “host sister,” Risa. We celebrated Emily, Neil, and Matt. I ate so many hotdogs at the Cardinal. I planned my wedding. Beth Finneran invited us over to make Valentines, and BOOM: I don’t even hate Valentines Day anymore. I kind of love it.
We’re already on the rollercoaster. It’s not like we can get off now. The guy has already strapped us in, and he’s drinking a Diet Coke while the automatic voiceover about keeping your hands and feet inside the carriage is playing. I’ve realized that it’s just way more fun to enjoy the ride than sit there and complain about it. It’s not like anything I do can make it stop once it’s started.
At the risk of being cliche (a risk I’m willing to take, but JUST THIS ONCE), there’s something so poetic about February. Each year, after an all-too-long and bitter winter, spring comes without fail. You can’t earn springtime. You can’t do anything to make it come faster. Punxatawny Phil (I don’t know how to spell his name and don’t care to look it up) can’t ACTUALLY make it come six weeks earlier. And yet, when it does arrive, it’s the best thing ever. It’s such a gift. Only a God who is good would be able to command the sun to rise just a little earlier, and to linger a little longer at the end of the day for us to bask in its warmth. Springtime is the promise of renewal and revival, the earth awakens from its dormant slumber, and life is once again breathed into the world. It feels like I’m learning how to breathe again for the first time.
At our women’s retreat, the speaker, Beth, highlighted that waiting is a spiritual discipline. In 2 Peter 3:8-9, the Lord is described as long-suffering. He waits, for years, for generations, for his people to come to him. He waits for us to learn the lesson He’s taught us a thousand times already. As ones striving to be more like Christ, we too, must become long-suffering. The Israelites waited for the promise of the coming Messiah. We wait for him to return. And until then, we wait for the promise of springtime, too.
Spring just wouldn’t be the same without the pain of winter.
PGFWABF & XOXOXO
MADELYN
2 Peter 3:8(b)-9 With the Lord a day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day. 9 The Lord is not slow in keeping his promise, as some understand slowness. Instead he is long-suffering, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance.