2008 President: Lautenberg-Byrd OR Byrd-Lautenberg *Profiles in Courage

:hi:

Mr. BYRD. Mr. President, this Sunday is special for two reasons. It is the first day of spring and it is also Palm Sunday, the beginning of the Christian Holy Week. Both events mark triumphant arrivals, of Jesus into Jerusalem, and the start of the season of rebirth, of lengthening days, warm earth, and growing things.

At this time of year, many people quote an adage to the effect that ``March comes in like a lion, and goes out like a lamb.'' An unknown poet said it better:


The March wind roars
Like a lion in the sky,
And makes us shiver
As he passes by.


When winds are soft,
And the days are warm and clear,
Just like a gentle lamb,
Then spring is here.

The exact origins of the March saying are not clear. Observers of the weather may assert that the saying reflects common springtime weather patterns, when shifting pressure gradients create the strong gusty winds so closely associated with March. Indeed, March marks the beginning of the tornado season in North America. We have certainly seen some strong cold winds recently, shaking the few remaining dry brown leaves out of the trees and whirling them across lawns and roads. Daffodils and crocus have been lured into bloom only to be buried under snow or ice. This year, winter is still roaring in March, with howling winds, snowstorms, ice, and rain across the nation. The poet Henry Van Dyke (1852-1933) once observed that:

The first day of spring is one thing, and first spring day is another. The difference between them is sometimes as great as a month.

We can but hope that the gentle lamb-like weather arrives soon.

Some skywatchers believe the adage has a heavenly source. They point out that the constellation Leo, the lion, is rising in the eastern horizon at the beginning of March, hence the ``coming in like a lion,'' while Aries, the ram, sets on the western horizon at the end of March, and so ``departs like a lamb.'' Some Christian observers point out that March is typically a Lenten month, in which Jesus, the Lamb of God, is sacrificed on the cross, only to return in the future as the Lion of Judah to rule over the world of men.

I do not know which theory is correct, but each is plausible and intriguing. They provide food for thought as gardeners rake out flower beds and till vegetable plots on the warm, sunny afternoons that crop out amid the rain and late snow flurries. They reassure us that, whichever is true, the world is behaving normally. If we are only patient a little while longer, the March winds will push winter along and leave the glorious spring in their wake.

Age is supposed to bring with it patience, but I find that each year I am just as eager for spring to arrive as I was when I was a boy. I may be even more eager than I was as a boy, since snowball fights and sledding down hills have been replaced with shoveling walks, scraping icy windshields, and higher heating bills. I am ready to shed my winter coat, ready to feel the sun on my face, ready to see the flowers bloom and the grass grow. I am ready to plant a few tomatos. I may not run through the fields and woods anymore, but I like to sit outside with my wife, Erma, and watch our little dog explore the backyard. I look forward to watching my grandchildren hunt for Easter eggs in the soft, new grass.

The vernal equinox marks the first day of spring, the perfect balance of light and dark, day and night. On Sunday, for the first time each year, day and night are equal. But then the sun triumphs over the dark days of winter. Each day through the spring, the period of sunlight grows a little longer, like the grass in the yard. Each day, the birds start singing a little earlier, and continue their song just a little later in the evening.


For winter's rains and ruins are over,
And all the season of snows and sins;
The days dividing lover and lover,
The light that loses, the night that wins;
And time remembered is grief forgotten
And frosts are slain and flowers begotten,
And in green underwood and cover Blossom by blossom the spring begins.

So wrote the poet Algernon Charles Swinburne--1837-1909--in his 1965 poem, ``Atalanta in Calydon.'' In March, the daffodils, crocus, and forsythia bloom, adding their springtime yellow and Lenten purple to winter's faded palette of gray and brown. But look closely, and you can see buds swelling into life on twigs and branches. Vibrant reddish buds reassure gardeners that the roses came through the winter, and will soon grace us with their beauty and sweet fragrance. The glorious parade of bloom and blossom will soon begin.

It seems more than happy coincidence that Easter is a springtime event. Like spring itself, the story of Easter is one of rebirth, of light triumphing over darkness. Palm Sunday, the arrival of Jesus into Jerusalem those many years ago, is shadowed with the knowledge of the dark days to come--Jesus'

betrayal, capture, and tortured procession with the cross on his back and crown of thorns on his brow. But after his death comes his resurrection and ascension, his rise from the darkness of the tomb to the light of Heaven.

Each spring, as we relive his great sacrifice for us, we can rejoice in his great promise of rebirth, even as we are surrounded by the earth's rebirth.

The celebration of birth and growth persists even in the most commercialized aspects of today's Easter celebration. Like the March winds adage, the origins of the Easter egg have been lost to time, but for untold centuries, eggs have symbolized fertility, resurrection and new life. The ancient Greeks, Persians, and Chinese exchanged eggs during their spring festivals. Some pagan traditions held that Heaven and Earth were formed from two halves of an egg.

Christian traditions have adapted this ancient symbol to the Easter ritual, wedding the ideas of earthly rebirth to spiritual resurrection. Once forbidden during Lent in the Middle Ages, eggs reappeared on Easter Sunday on the dinner table as well as being given as gifts. In Greece, eggs are dyed red to represent the blood of Christ. In Germany and Austria, green eggs are exchanged on Maundy, or Holy, Thursday. Many cultures have developed elaborate decorations for blown or hardboiled eggs, from the graphic Russian `pysanki' eggs to those with religious symbols and scenes carefully painted on them.

Whatever the tradition, Easter eggs remain a springtime delight. The fun of making them is overcome only by the fun of hiding them and watching small hands tightly clutching decorated baskets loaded with their brightly colored bounty. Of course, today's Easter baskets are also filled with chocolate eggs, jelly beans, and marshmallow treats--some 90 million chocolate Easter bunnies, 700 million marshmallow Peeps, and 16 billion jellybeans each year, according to some reports. Older Easter food traditions, such as the hot cross buns once given to the poor by monks, and pretzels, with crossed arms resembling a person at prayer, have fallen from favor before this onslaught of sugar.

As Erma and I watch our children, our children's children, and now, our great-grandchildren, continue this happy custom, we are thankful once again for these, our blessings. Their new lives, like those of children everywhere, are treasured gifts. On this coming Easter, in this first week of spring, I know I am not alone in giving thanks.

I close with a short poem by Louise Seymour Jones, called ``Who Loves a Garden.'' In just a few lines, she marries the spheres of heaven and earth,



the greening of the land, the rebirth of the flowers as well as the spirit, and work that is a labor of love.

Who Loves a Garden
Who loves a garden
Finds within his soul
Life's whole;
He hears the anthem of the soil
While ingrates toil;
And sees beyond his little sphere
He waving fronds of heaven, clear.


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