Prairie Pasque
Just west of Selby, South Dakota, on the north side of Highway 12, a patch of pine trees grows on a rocky knob at the edge of a field. My grandfather planted them in the 1960s, after determining that there were just too many rocks in that spot to make it worth trying to farm. When I was born, those trees were teenagers. Some of our first family photos were taken at the pine trees when I was an infant; Mom and Dad smiling, the trees keeping their own councils, and I, howling at the chilly wind that was trying to take my breath away in spite of how warmly I was bundled.
There were not a lot of pine trees in Walworth County, nor much of what one might consider “wild land” in an area mostly given to farming. Between the low-lying, muddy sloughs and the Missouri River hills rising in the distance, the glacial soils gave fertile bed to seeds of wheat, oats, barley, sunflowers, corn. But thanks to the granite rock, also a gift of the glaciers, one little piece of earth refused to be tamed by a tractor.
That oasis of crested wheatgrass and pine trees kept a remnant of the wild prairie hidden among its roots. Every spring, around Palm Sunday or Easter, Dad would take us on a pilgrimage to look for the crocuses. Prairie Pasqueflowers, although commonly called crocuses, are not truly a crocus. They are one of the fragile and beautiful native prairie flowers which are nearly impossible to grow in soil after it has been cultivated.
Throughout my childhood, these tiny, velvet purple blossoms with their silvery, furred leaves, took their place in the cast of heralds of spring each year. They joined the myriad flocks of geese and cranes I could hear calling day and night, the first robin and meadowlark, the tulips poking up from the earth, in celebrating the changing of the seasons. Their arrival generally coincided so closely with Easter that, unless we had a late spring blizzard, going to look for them became as much a part of our family ritual as the communion service on Maundy Thursday, the somber Good Friday Tenebrae service, and the sunrise service on Easter morning.
This year, my observances of Lent did not follow a liturgical pattern. It began with my mother having surgery on Ash Wednesday, and as these weeks have passed, we have been blown about by news that feels rather like a spring blizzard roaring in: she has cancer.
Instead of spending a little extra time in a church, I’ve spent time on the road, in hospitals, in clinics and on zoom calls. The onslaught of medical information, friends and family offering support and suggestions, and the voices in my own head are dizzying, as I try to figure out how to be mother to my children and daughter to my mother through this new season.
St. John of the Cross said: “Silence is God’s first language.” There is something holy about waiting, listening, seeking, and shutting out the noise and activity of life for a time. Silence has been desperately hard for me to come by these days. I also feel like finding moments of silence and stillness are an absolute necessity.
And so, one day when I was driving Mom home after two appointments in two different towns, we stopped to look for crocuses at the pine trees. It was still early, although with the unusually warm and dry spring weather this year, many of my friends have already found them blooming. I walked around on that rocky little hill, listening to the wind whisper in the tall pines and the dormant grasses, and let the silence speak.
We don’t know yet where this journey is going to lead. We don’t know how long or how rough the path will be for mom. We –my mother and siblings and I –know that it will involve waiting for each new step to be clear. It will mean listening to each other and finding ways to support one another. It will mean seeking out ways to show up for mom and shutting out things in life that have suddenly fallen pretty low on the priority list. And it will require that we prioritize things that are good for our souls, like finding moments of stillness and looking for crocuses poking out of the earth on a rocky, pine needle strewn hillside.
St. Teresa of Avila said: “Prayer is an act of love. Words are not needed.” I am grateful, this Easter season, that God understands and sees our hearts, when we have no words and whether we are or are not in church. I am grateful for the roots of love in family, faith and tradition that carry us through seasons of change.
Mom and I didn’t find any Pasqueflowers, that day in March. But we’ll go back. I don’t know if I will be in a church to celebrate Easter this year, but I do know I will take time to look again for the crocuses.
