The grass is brittle beneath my boots. Insulated against winter’s harshness, the bleached ground has been under snow for more than four months. But the snow has gone now, save for a little that remains on the high hills around Ulaanbaatar.

It has been a mild winter with relatively little snowfall, for which we are thankful. Although many herders would disagree. Speaking in low tones they worry that the light snow cover exposed the steppe to the worst of the winter elements damaging precious spring pasture. Anxious for their herds, they wonder whether the underfed animals will make it through the next few weeks, especially since sudden spring snowfalls can easily drift and bury cattle.

They are right to be concerned. We’ve passed dead animals collapsed beside the road. And even those tramping the steppe are starting to look shabby, as their winter coats cling to their ribs.

When will the shadow of winter’s death be cast off?

Spring winds arrive unannounced; the Siberian northerly meeting the warmer breezes from the south. Like turbulent enemies they clash, roaring at one another like lions engaged in battle. Whipping loose sand into their hands, they cast a bronzed cloud over Ulaanbaatar. The cloud moves menacingly towards us until, lashing our faces, we are caught in its grip. We wince, remembering the reports we’ve heard that some Mongolians love to stand naked in the raging storm.

Life is moving forward.

A ground squirrel wakes from his winter hibernation, pokes his head above his burrow and excitedly takes his first steps of the year. His fawn coat is the perfect camouflage in this faded landscape. He stops, standing motionless on his hindlegs, beady eyes surveying, ears twitching before scurrying back to the safety of his underground home.

On the growing warm breeze there is the softest of calls. The gentle hiccup of the shy cuckoo, whom we rarely see but often hear. She is a strange bird, retiring on the one hand, audacious on the other. Gate-crashing her way into another nest she lays her eggs and leaves, abandoning the invaded nest’s owners to rear her young instead of their own.

But still we wait. There has been no rain since autumn. Surely, it will come soon.

And then it’s here. A dirty storm sending streams of water cascading down drainless roads. The rain revives and, among the yellowed shades, new grass shivers. Close to the ground spring flowers blossom, dainty stem and frail leaf standing bold and strong. How did they survive the cruel winter? How did they keep faith?

The transition from winter to flourishing spring is slow. Leafless silver birches crowd the wood and the hills are still largely desolate. And yet the landscape is not dead – merely moving through the seasons. While the animals slept, roots secure in the soil, pushed deeper through the chill until warmed they raised their heads above the earth and bloom.

Precious warmth and moisture, reviving, restoring, and renewing. Grace is here. Elucidating the presence of my loving Creator, reminding me of His timely renewal of my deadened mind and refreshment of my depressed heart as he pours His nourishment into my thirsty soul.