On March 22—three days after the 2024 spring equinox—I shoveled snow off of my sidewalks, porch, and windshield. I shivered as I cleared space after space, wishing the nearness of April could erase this aftertaste of winter. Earlier that week, my morning walk had included a few daffodil sightings. Now those tiny yellow flowers were covered in white. It was the end of March, a time for hopes and glimpses of the future. And of course the weather seemed to be pushing us back toward the cold and dark past.
On March 29—a week later—the snow had melted, and spring seemed to have arrived at last. The tree outside my apartment budded with hints of pink. I was deeply happy, filled with good memories and the simple delight of stepping outside without a bulky coat. And of course, this March 29 was also Good Friday—the day we Christians mark as the day God died. It is a somber, reflective day, one for quiet songs and services that end in silence. And of course the weather seemed to be pushing us toward Easter already.
On March 31—only two days after the sunny Good Friday—the sky was gray and overcast, and spring seemed to have slumped into a rainy halfway state. Sunshine seemed eternities away. And yet it was Easter Sunday: the day we Christians celebrate as the day Jesus rose from the dead. It is a time for loud, exuberant songs and shouts of joy. And of course the weather seemed to be pushing us toward the harsh realities of our world, not its hopes.
On April 8—not long after Easter, and a seemingly routine Monday—the sun and the moon met in a total solar eclipse, an event that will not occur again in North America for two decades. Preparing for an unusual week of conferences and travel, I was tempted by offers to caravan down to Indiana, Ohio, or other states with more than the 93.7% coverage we saw in West Michigan. But even in Grand Rapids, I saw the eclipse disorienting our sense of season. April 8 was an odd, arhythmic sort of national holiday, gathering people to watch and wonder under the same strange and amazing collision. On my way to meet friends, I saw people lining up outside 20 Monroe Live as if their favorite artist was playing the venue; instead, they were lining up for a special performance of the sun and the moon. On a hilltop with Michaela and Ben, I saw strangers on their apartment balconies, staring up at the same sky that mesmerized the three of us. On the days following, I swapped stories of amazement and delight with those who had experienced totality or even just paused their everyday lives to marvel. It was a Monday afternoon in mid-April, a day that would have normally faded into the mundane. And of course the sky seemed to be pushing us toward the unusual and spectacular.
I have written before about the beauty of embracing the season—of cherishing what is unique and wonderful about a specific spot in time and nature. But I also believe in acknowledging the moments that jolt us out of our expectations. Sometimes the days match our versions of what the calendar should be; sometimes they match the dreams we had for a month ago or a month from now. Sometimes nature surprises us and reminds us that goodness cannot be so easily forecasted.
Courtney Zonnefeld graduated in 2018 with a degree in writing. She currently lives in Grand Rapids, Michigan, where she works for Eerdmans Books for Young Readers. In her free time, she enjoys reading, baking, and saving up for more herb plants. You can usually find her wandering a farmer’s market, hunting for vintage books, or browsing the tea selection in coffee shops.
