Amidst all the news, all that continues to change with every passing moment, I almost missed that equinox occurred this past Thursday. In a normal reality, I might have given more notice to such an early spring.
Equinox is that moment when the sun, to those on the equator, lies directly overhead at noon. The length of day and night, for most of us, isn’t really equal on that day. But, it’s a marker. It’s the moment we’re halfway between the solstices—the moment when the days or nights are longest.
Vernal or spring equinox marks the moment that light begins to overcome the shadows. Ever since December, the sun has remained in the sky just a little longer. Slowly, the light of day has been dispelling the darkness. On Thursday, it once again won its annual battle and began to dominate the night. The shadows, with each sunrise, are further dispelled.
In June, the shadows regain their foothold and start to push back. Then, after the autumnal equinox in the fall, the tide turns, and night overtakes the light. Come December, our days are filled, mostly, with shadows and the light that shines is weak, dim.
Despite the early blooms on the trees, it feels closer to December than June. While the sun shines in the sky longer each day, the shadows appear to be growing. The pandemic continues. Each day brings new cases, new measures, new concerns. Libraries, museums, playhouses, even churches all sit dark, shuttered to stop the spread of this plague.
Here, in the midst of Lent, it feels a lot more like Advent—a time when we are waiting and longing for light.
It will come, eventually. That’s the hope to which I hold, the same hope that feeds me through the many advents of life. Unfortunately, life does not ride the regular orbits of planets. There is no calendar to which we can point. And in the uncertainty, I begin to feel the fear that the shadows may never be dispelled.
We are told that when Christ was crucified, the sky turned dark at midday. In this tragic moment, the horror that’s been inside humanity since primitive times became reality: darkness had won. Light had lost the battle. Despite the signs of spring all around, winter’s solstice had come. But, this time, it seemed, there would be no dawn when light turned the tide.
Outside, it’s a gray, damp, and cold day. Through the still-bare limbs of crepe myrtles and trees, I see brown grass that has not yet begun to green or grow. The sun cannot seem to break the clouds these past days, leaving us in a dull shadow that covers the day until darkness falls. It seems that night is winning and perhaps might, as in the Good Friday story, even conquer noonday.
But that is not the whole story. The shadows reign for a time, but dawn comes.
And so does spring.