Everything is Waking Up Here. Come See.
From The Close · Spring 2026
"See! The winter is past; the rains are over and gone. Flowers appear on the earth; the season of singing birds has come." — Song of Solomon 2:11–12
If you haven't been to The Close in spring, let us be the first to tell you: you are missing something. Not in the guilt-inducing way. In the wide-eyed, childlike, where-has-this-been-all-my-life way.
Every year around this time, the grounds seem to exhale. Green appears overnight in shades you didn't know green came in. The wildflowers show up without any help from anyone — which feels very much like a spiritual lesson if you're paying attention.
A Word About the Residents
We share this place with some neighbors who did not schedule a retreat, yet here we all are together.
The deer are first to greet the morning, wandering the meadow's edge with a serenity that is either deeply spiritual or deeply sleepy — possibly both. The wild turkeys are less serene. They have opinions. They share them. We have learned to appreciate them anyway.
The bobcats are here too, though they are subtle about it. Mostly you will find a print in soft mud, or catch the amber flash of a tail at dusk. Consider it a gift when you do.
The bees are back and busy, which is wonderful news for the flowering things and a gentle reminder to walk peacefully through spaces that do not belong only to you. And yes — the snakes are out. Copperheads, timber rattlesnakes, the harmless varieties. They were here long before we were. They do not want trouble. Neither do we. We simply watch where we step and remember that wildness is not a flaw in creation; it is the point of it.
The Flowers, Though
We want to talk about the flowers.
The redbud trees bloom first, making improbable fuchsia announcements against still-bare wood. Then come the dogwoods, white as a held breath, their petals said to carry the shape of the cross. Iris’ press up through the grass without being asked. The Magnolias unfurl their wide umbrella leaves along the creek bank. Ferns, wildflowers, Quaker Bonnets — all of it arriving on its own schedule, unbothered by our calendar.
The pollen, we will admit, is also notable. It covers everything in a fine chartreuse dust that is both slightly inconvenient and profoundly alive. Think of it as the land's way of participating enthusiastically.
What Spring Sounds Like Here
Silence is actually not silent in spring at The Close. It is layered. There is the creek, which is full and fast with runoff. There are the tree frogs that arrive suddenly one evening and simply do not stop. There is birdsong from first light — whipporwill, wood thrushes, goldfinches, the distant drumming of a woodpecker. There is wind in the new leaves, which is a particular, papery sound that no other season makes quite the same way.
All of it together is, frankly, better than anything playing through your earbuds right now. We say this with love.
An Invitation, Simply Put
The Close exists because we believe people need places to stop. Not stop permanently — just long enough to remember who they are, and whose they are, and that the world God made is still here, still green, still worth paying attention to.
Spring is not waiting for you to feel ready. It is already happening. Come be in the middle of it.
— The Colters at the Close, who swept bobcat prints off the porch this morning and called it church.
