At the airport I saw a trash can that lived its life beneath the leaking roof above the train platform. The drip drip of the melting snow had created a crystal crown around its rim that sparkled unapologetically on the grimy cement. 

Birds sang joyously in the clear confidence that winter is receding and they are alive. 

Even with the momentary setback of daylight savings tomorrow the light is stretching into the morning and evening, pushing back the dark into her cave. Warmth is returning.

It makes me laugh that a fifty degree afternoon next week will feel like a gift, whereas a sub sixty morning next July when we go to the shore could be fodder for discontent. Maybe the cycles of brisk and breezy, shine and shadows are there less as the fall out of a distracted God and more as a shifting backdrop for gratitude.  

Benjamin told me he missed me. It is hard to express how rare those three words are in our relationship. It softened the edges of the screaming that followed later in the evening when the computer misbehaved. Sure, Ben was being loud as I tried to listen to the stories the twins had about Africa and the play about an adventurous toad. But he had also said he missed me. I could give him wide berth in his frustration. 

Seasons in marriage are as inevitable as the sunset. Yet we scoff at our partners as if it is their fault that winter dared set foot in our hometown.