Readers, scattered across the world in different climates: Would you like a summary of the weather in Michigan in February 2008?

The first weekend of February: Radio stations played dire warnings of snow and snow and more snow. It came down all Thursday night; on Friday, schools were canceled. This snow was followed by unusually bitter cold, the kind that makes parents tells their children not to play outside because of frostbite, and makes you cover your mouth with a scarf so that your teeth don’t hurt.

The second weekend in February: Our daughter Clara was scheduled to compete in a gymnastics meet. We couldn’t go because there was more snow, this time combined with icy roads and wind (up to 50 mph) that blew the snow and made it impossible to see. I-94 was closed.

The third weekend in February: Church was canceled. A slight thaw had covered the streets with melted snow; Saturday night it froze, and Sunday morning the streets were shiny and the church parking lot was like an ice-rink. It was still partially frozen on Monday morning - I slipped and fell on my back.

At the beginning of the month, the Monday after the snowstorm, our homeschool group started again after a long winter break. This 12-week series of classes is cheerily called “Spring Term.” Looking out of the window, this seems crazy. But no one wants to call it “Winter Term” because everyone knows that by the end of the 12 weeks, dandelions will be covering the hills and children will be running outside barefoot.

During the cold snap in between snow storm and wind storm, shivering in the van even after it had warmed up for several minutes, our daughter Kathryn blithely chirped: “It feels like spring.” She was sincere. She felt spring in the air. How? It certainly wasn’t temperature, and there are no indications yet of life on trees. Maybe she felt the spring because the afternoons had started lengthening just a bit, sunlight marginally inching back into the world. Maybe she glimpsed daffodils and tulips thrusting their bright color into the grocery stores. But I suspect mostly Kathryn felt spring because she knows it is coming. No matter how cold and snowy and windy it is now, we are moving away from winter and into spring. The winter must inexorably give way. If you really know that, then you can feel it in the air, without any external evidence. If you really know it, you are buoyed with cheerful confidence to make it through February’s winter fits.

In The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis, the creatures in Narnia lived in endless winter, not knowing for certain that spring would return, though they did hope that Aslan would come back someday. The friends and followers of Jesus lived in despair, not knowing, as they watched him tortured and killed, that he would return with a resurrection power that would turn the world upside down.

But we know. We have seen many winters conquered by springs. We have hundreds of years of evidence of God turning darkness into light, as tokens of his promises of final spring. What does this have to do with orphan ministry? The harsh realities of injustice, poverty and disease crush vulnerable children like the cold bite of winter. They also threaten to close in on us as we seek to pull these children out of darkness into light. This winter could make us despair. But the spring cannot be stopped. God’s kingdom of life is inexorably moving forward. We need not be crushed by the winter, or run from it to hide in a beachfront resort that attempts to block it out.

When we believe God’s promises, we can stand bravely in the icy storms and proclaim: “It feels like spring.”

Please take a few minutes to read and savor Isaiah 35, and perhaps use it as a prayer for orphans and children, especially those in your circle of care. Israel not being a Midwestern climate, the picture is not melting snow, but blooming desert, but the idea is the same. Death will melt into life, in creation as in God’s people. Winter gives way to spring and sorrow to singing. Spring bursts out; gladness and joy overtakes.

Spring cannot be stopped.