If April in Montana were a person
Plus Mandisa (another early finisher), and some healthy contemplation on the unpredictable storms of life
"Where's winter?" April looks around, storm clouds gathering on her brow.
"Sorry, Sugar," Calendar replies. "Winter had to go bye-bye."
"But I want more winter!" April whines, melting down into a puddle.
"You can have more winter next year."
"No! I don't want next year. I want winter now!" Her lower lip quivers and she folds her arms across her chest.
"I'm sorry, but that's just the way life goes sometimes."
"But it's not fair!" April huffs and puffs in blustery gusts.
"Life’s not about being fair, Sugar. Life follows the basic seasons. And I'm the calendar, so . . ."
"Stop calling me Sugar! I'm not sweet. I'm mad!" April bellows and thunders.
Calendar shakes her head and places her hands on her hips, saying nothing.
April writhes on the floor, screaming and crying, tears streaking down her face, feet stomping on the kitchen floor.
"Nope," says Calendar, finally. "You know the rules. If you're going to throw a fit like that, you'll have to do it outside. No one in the house wants to see that kind of behavior."
Calendar carefully lifts the flailing April from the floor and deposits her in the backyard. A moment later, she tosses a jacket outside. It lands near the wailing child. "It's chilly out there today. Put on your coat if you get cold."
April ignores the coat. She stomps her feet, then runs from one end of the yard to the other, back and forth, back and forth, as fast as her little legs will carry her. Her voice is a mixed-up combination of crying and wailing and yelling. Her tears fly from her red cheeks, freezing as they fall in the cold air.
Before long, April has singlehandedly created a snowstorm. Fat, fluffy flakes fall heavily all around her.
She keeps going. More running, more crying. The snow begins to pile up, covering the back yard. Still she runs.
Calendar looks on from behind the sliding glass door, suppressing a smile. It's almost cute, this little tantrum. But she knows it won't last. April does this every year--some years more than once--but it never lasts long.
The frenetic pace is too much for the little one to maintain, and she slows, then stops. April's wailing fades to whimpering. Overheated and exhausted, she flops down on her back in the wet snow, her lungs expelling her steamy breath in great gasps. She squints at the sky as the clouds begin to clear.
"Nooo!" she lets out another blast. "Winter . . ." She chokes on a sob. Thirsty, she reaches one hand to her side and scoops an inch of slushy snow into her mouth.
Her little body is limp with exhaustion and completely overheated from all the blustering about in the yard. The snow around her begins to melt from her body heat.
Calendar slides open the door. "Are you ready to come in now?"
"No." She looks away.
"Ok, that’s fine. Whenever you're ready, though, I have a juice box for you."
April turns her head toward the door. She's tired. And thirsty. And all that running has made her hungry. Her voice is soft, barely above a whisper. "Some fishy crackers, too?"
"Of course, Sugar, fishy crackers, too. But only if you're finished throwing a fit. Are you all done now?"
"I'm done." She rolls over and pushes herself to her knees, then stands and wipes a grimy hand across her face. She walks toward the house, sniffling and snuffling as the warm sun peeks through the clouds.
Calendar smiles, then looks at her wristwatch and sighs. It's almost time to wake May from her nap.
You just never know with these two.
It’s all so unpredictable.
The forecast
As I write this post, preparing it for release on Tuesday, April 30, 2024, I am prepared for one final tantrum from Miss April. Tuesday’s forecast calls for snow. I have no idea what May will bring. Here in our high mountain valley in Montana, we’ve occasionally had snow in June. Once, I recall, we even had a quick little flurry of flakes in July.
We were not around for winter this year, of course, as we left Montana on the first of December, wandered around Southeast Asia with our backpacks for a few months, and didn’t return until mid-March.
If you’re a new reader, here’s a basic intro to our trip. And here is the start of a three-part series about how we did it, both financially and practically, and an analysis of the things we carried, both physically and mentally—some useful, some not.
Although we weren’t here to witness it, I’ve heard the winter in western Montana was unusually mild and dry—quite a contrast to the heat and humidity we encountered in Southeast Asia. Mild and dry sounds nice for city folk or vacationers, but this is bad news for a region like ours. The minimal snowpack on the peaks all around us sets the valley up for an especially rough wildfire season.
As such, we are happy for any and all bonus wintery weather we can get—April, May, or otherwise. Pleasant temps and gentle rains right now just add to the growth of the underbrush, which will quickly convert into kindling during summer’s predicted drought. Shiver me timbers, miserable as it may feel in the moment, is much more helpful right now. Snow on the peaks lasts longer, melts gradually, and eventually turns into runoff to fill our reservoirs and irrigation ditches.
Go, April, go! Throw those little tantrums. And tell May, too.
It’s all so unpredictable.
Another early finisher
Speaking of the storms of life, last week I wrote about my cousins’ son, a beloved 28-year old who was struck and killed by an errant drunk driver while changing a tire. He finished his proverbial race1 early, much to the devastation of his friends and family.
Around the same time, the world lost another of the great ones—a singer by the name of Mandisa.
It’s all so unpredictable.
Her authenticity and vulnerability2 were inspiring. Her unflagging commitment to racial reconciliation and unity was refreshing. Her exuberance, contagious.
Here’s a sample of her music, a collab between her, Toby Mac, and Kirk Franklin—yes, there is some talking as an artful intro to the song.
Mandisa’s powerful vocals occasionally blared through our home when my kids were teens. So, when I heard shockwaves of her unexpected passing, I felt something in me abruptly click off, like someone had suddenly muted a soundtrack playing in the background of my memories. The quiet was unsettling.
No, not Mandisa. I wasn’t ready for her time to be over. I wanted more.
I happened to stumble upon a link to her funeral service, being broadcast live on YouTube, just as it started. Curious, and fresh off another powerful memorial service in my own family, I clicked and began to watch.
Actually, I mostly just listened, as I was simultaneously sanding the wooden lattice-work grate that will cover the hidden shower pan in Walter, our nearly finished expedition rig. It was a lengthy service, several hours long, but I had a big project before me and nowhere else to go. And it was Mandisa. I stayed tuned in through the whole thing.
The reason the funeral ran so long, of course, was because so many people who were close to her wanted to say something. So many people had been touched by her life personally—beyond just hearing a CD play over the speakers in the living room like me. They knew the real Mandisa, behind the scenes. And, if they were indeed telling it like it was, the real Mandisa was worth gushing about for hours. She was the same person both offstage and on.
These two funerals I witnessed in the span of one week were for people 28 and 47 years old. In our modern world, that doesn’t seem very old, but in 1776 when the United States was founded, the average life expectancy was about the same age I am now, mid-50s. It’s never too early to consider such things.
It’s all so unpredictable.
The words I heard spoken at these services, the outpouring of love and admiration for these two who crossed the finish line early, so much earlier than anyone had expected—they got me thinking:
What would people say about me? Who have I impacted and how? What have I done with my one wild and precious life?3
I don’t think it’s morbid or pretentious to ask these types of questions. On the contrary, I think this sort of self-reflection is healthy. Just like a freak snowstorm in April is good for the Bitterroot Valley even though it’s not necessarily pleasant, King Solomon the Wise once famously remarked4 it’s actually more beneficial to go to funerals than parties. Hanging out with the dead and grieving isn’t as fun, but it gives us more to think about and help us become wise.
So, in addition to hoping April throws one last major tantrum on this final day of the month (and hoping May brings a little meteorological Mayhem, as well), I’m contemplating the brevity of life5 this week. I’m imagining what would be said of me at my funeral and considering what I want the remainder of my days to be about. It’s not too late to make some changes.
Perhaps you’d like to join me in contemplation. I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments—and others likely would appreciate them, too. We’re all in this together, friend.
Until next week,
Sherry
P.S. Next week, I’ll present you with a preview of the changes that are coming to Beauty and Truth Weekly in June. I’m so excited about all this, and I really believe you will be, too. It’s going to be a win-win for all of us!
We all finish the race eventually. 2 Timothy 4:7 (NLT)
Although Mandisa had written candidly about her struggle with depression, there is no indication that she took her own life, as some initially speculated. Her father addressed this at the funeral and gave the best guess at her cause of death, as confirmed (unofficially) by the investigators still working on the case. The assumption at this point is that she took a bad fall in her home and was unable to call for help. No sign of self-harm or foul play has been discovered.
“Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?” The Summer Day, by Mary Oliver
King Solomon, on why funerals are better than parties. Ecclesiastes 7:2-4 (NLT)
On the wisdom of contemplating the brevity of life: Psalm 90:12 (NLT)
I really loved how you illustrated the relationship between April and Calendar. It was really creative, cute, but relatable! I am so sorry for your loss, and yes I'm still grieving over Mandisa.
Life's changing currents toss us around, but I thank God for His everlasting arms that carries us (Isaiah 46:3-4)
Thank you for sharing!
I understand the need for snow pack, but in the wet, dreary northwest, I'm tired of Winter (even though I spent part of winter elsewhere this year). As to contemplation, the "baby step" so far is to recognize the value of your reflection questions, and to begin brainstorming a possible story idea with a character who doesn't want to lose life's stories. Not quite the same.... but you never know how God will weave it all together. Unpredictable can be good, in that we do not know exactly * what * God will do next, only to Expect that He * will * do something. And we're welcome to be part of it.