The Power of Story When Death Gives Way to Life
Winter has passed, new life springs forward
The power of poetry…
Lyrical language and poetic imagery are what first introduced me to Dana Portillo. Our love of the written word was what originally connected us, but it didn’t take long to realize we had so much more in common. Shared experiences such as relocating our homes and lives to places we never imagined we would reside, homeschooling our kids, and trying to balance it all while pursuing publication as writers (in whatever form or format worked best for each of us in our different seasons of life) offered an invitation into deeper dialogue. But it was our shared faith and continued pursuit of the Lord through seasons when life looked much different than either of us had planned that caused me to recognize in Dana a true kindred spirit.
Her message is so timely as we celebrate Holy Week. New life is always birthed out of darkness, whether from the womb, the soil, or the tomb. Resurrection is only possible on the other side of the grave.
THE POWER OF STORY WHEN DEATH GIVES WAY TO LIFE - DANA PORTILLO
Four Aprils ago, we moved from Alabama to Indiana on nothing but a prayer. The beginning and ending of life seasons are usually palpable with God. What is sometimes less obvious is the purpose behind the death of one season or the new life of another. After four years, I still do not know the why behind this drastic uprooting to a place we knew nothing about. But I do know that God has used the new experience of four distinct seasons to remind me of his truths.
When we moved to Indiana, it was just waking up from winter in mid-April. It was a symphony really, so unlike the quick pollen fest that is hastily pushed out by summer in the Deep South. And in those first few weeks here, we would go out into the capricious April days, in rain, wind, sun, or even snow (there is often one last April dusting), and watch things come to life, plant by plant, flower by flower. They seemed to herald our new season.
Perhaps the most captivating of all the plants was the peony. I had only seen them in photos before. Or wedding bouquets. They don’t grow in the South, or most of it anyway. The ground isn’t cold enough through the winter. There’s a thought—a plant that needs freezing weather to thrive. Once I knew we had a peony bush in our yard here, anticipation grew. I checked on it every day to see the overnight changes. At first, I resisted loving them the way people expect you to love them, fearing maybe they were less romantic in person than in photos. But I didn’t resist for long. It was quickly evident that in this new place and season, God had given me something new to marvel at. Had I not moved 800 miles away, I wouldn’t have even known that I loved them. But they only last a few precious weeks. You watch them come to life, then you watch them die. And along with it, spring, then summer, and finally fall dies with the last of the rain-soaked leaf crumbs gathered at curbs.
That first winter was dark. I never knew a sky could forget dimension, never knew clouds could stretch out to hold hands with each other until they all became one gray canvas. Where was the sun in the sky? Even at midday, so many lights had to be turned on so you could prepare meals, read books, even take naps. I couldn’t sleep in the daytime without turning a lamp on for fear my body would think it was night and just keep on sleeping until tomorrow.
This was the time when I really saw my neighborhood, my community. Being unable to visit our city before buying our house, we let God lead the way, and he was faithful to provide us with a great home. But there was a lot we didn’t know or expect. Now that winter was here, our new city failed to produce the distractions that kept our eyes darting around the natural world, and now they landed on the manmade world around us. And it was hard to take in. More and more, I was experiencing things I have had the lifelong privilege of not experiencing in large doses until moving here. The adrenaline of adventure had worn off, and I was face-to-face with the less pleasant parts of inner-city life. It was a world in the grips of death. And I didn’t know what to do with what I saw.
I sank into depression. I yawned and dragged myself through winter until–you guessed it–April came round again. The sun came out, and the earth broke into chorus, and I felt myself come back to life to move through the cycle of seasons again. And now we’ve completed four winters. I can’t say that I’ve experienced another winter of depression, but I’ve had days of it. Weeks, probably. It’s difficult not only because I see a lack of life in nature, but it seems to run out of humanity as well. Sirens wail through the night, soup kitchen lines grow, and strangers’ faces are as devoid of color as the gray skies they huddle under. “Maranatha,” I sigh under my breath, and I pull my coat closer around me as if I can block out the ache with the cold.
This unwanted winter passenger gets its claws so deep into me that by March, when torrents of rain soak the brown and empty flower beds, there’s a part of me that forgets there’s anything hidden in the dark earth. Like the disciples who grieved the death of their Lord without understanding the holy breath that would soon render the grave empty, part of me lets the weight of darkness win. But every year, as April comes on in wild taunts, Jesus stands at the tomb of the earth shouting “Come out!” And then I see them. Daffodils. Tulips. Irises. Pushing up from the blackness, reaching for light in the bone-chilling rain.
And then I see the thing I have been holding onto hope for, silently, kept down like bitter medicine: the deep magenta shoots of the peonies. How does one tiny, little finger become what it is? It's a miracle, really. A resurrection. After becoming a mature bush, it sends out its green orbs that swell until they cannot contain themselves anymore, bursting open to reveal dozens of imperfect and fragile petals. It’s a Hallelujah from the earth. They even become so heavy that they bow down, in a worship that we would do well to emulate. For winter has gone on. The old things have passed away, and God is doing a new thing.
Maybe I’m more like the peony than I know. Maybe God knew I needed the real winters to really experience the world come to life again in spring. Maybe he knew I needed the yearly reminder that because Jesus lives, because he beat death and darkness forever, winter does not have the final say. How many, many times in life has He moved me from season to season, from small hope to small hope, from death to life? Every April, as God calls me out of the dark with all the green shoots and budding leaves, it doesn’t matter so much that I don’t have all the answers. The eternal truths come into view. For a while, I’m content with the beautiful reminder that all of this will eventually pass away and that the grave gave up its most precious dead so that we might live where spring is eternal.
“For as the rain and snow come down from heaven and do not return there but water the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater, so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth; it shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that which I purpose, and shall succeed in the thing for which I sent it.” Isaiah 55:10-11
How have you witnessed death giving way to life this spring and Easter season?
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Originally from the Deep South, Dana Portillo currently writes from her urban Indiana home, where a searching eye for beauty in all places grounds her to what is true. Although she is new to the published world of writing, she has been expressing herself through the written word from a young age. As a trained visual artist and designer, she enjoys many other forms of creative expression, including flower arranging, knitting, and cooking. She is passionate about group Bible studies and long, theological dives. Dana is happily married and homeschools her four children with a heavy focus on good literature (of course). She proudly carries on a family tradition of dachshund ownership, and she best describes herself as an introverted Anne Shirley.
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I’m born and raised in Indiana. I know the feeling that long winters bring and the excitement that comes with the first sign of spring. I love your thoughts about it, Dana. I’m a homeschool mom too!!❤️
Incredible Dana. I loved it and can relate. Miss Nancy.