Rivulets of water run down the dining room window, distorting and blending elements in the image presented of the wooded lot that backs up to our house.
Outside, the trees are bare, grey, and brown; green only where lichen or moss has spread across a slender trunk. The March rain weeps upon them, seeming to mourn for the barren trees, lifeless grasses, and bare dirt of a dead earth.
Inside, a book lies before me on the table, opened to Tolkien’s essay, “On Fairy Stories.” Eucatastrophe is underlined in one of the opened pages, followed by more underlined words describing the word as the “true form of fairy tale,” where, when all seems lost, we find the “sudden joyous ‘turn'” bringing with it “a piercing glimpse of joy, and heart’s desire” that speaks of a deeper and truer Joy to come.
The seasons are a tale of eucatastrophe written in nature’s language. The tears streaking the window, glistening from the trees, are heralds of the sudden joyous turn that is to come. Spring completes the true fairy tale of the seasons’ movements, and whispers the hope of Evangelium to us who wait.