We moved into our home last winter at the end of an icy, cold February. Fifteen years prior to our arrival, our home was constructed for the sole purpose of becoming a rental property, so occupants put very little effort into the home, including the landscaping. When we bought our house, we had no idea what our snow-covered yard would look like. As the winter freeze began to thaw, it revealed that the landscaping needed some tender-loving care, to say the least. The long flower-bed between the sidewalk and house was covered in tufts of brown, dingy, spring grass. Our work was definitely cut out for us. We could hardly wait for spring to fully arrive, so we could get started on the transformation. One day, just as the days became balmy, my son came running to tell me there were yellow flowers that had poked through the ground.
I quickly followed him outside to find golden crocuses smiling through the gloomy backdrop. Those tiny flowers brightened our spirits after an emotional, and exhausting winter.
Pretty pink and purple hyacinths were the next to surprise us with spring's hope, followed by a rainbow of tulips. Despite being a rental property, someone through the years cared enough to take the time to plant bulbs that would eventually produce hope-filled blooms. Unfortunately, the bulbs weren't planted intentionally, and the entangled mess of spotty grass, weeds, and bulbs would have to be removed from the flower bed to make way for something new.
We weeded, dug, hoed, sweat, raked, planned, prepped, and worked. As we made our way through the soil, we came upon at least a hundred flower bulbs. We removed them all, but felt guilty throwing them away, so we salvaged as many of the larger bulbs as we could with the intention of replanting them in the fall. We stored them in a cardboard box in the garage where they would have to wait until the right time for planting.
Last autumn on a gorgeous Indian summer day, I took the box of bulbs from the garage, and got to work. I counted and separated according to variety.
I took a handful of bulbs in amazement that these homely little things held the hope of spring's beauty beneath their onion-like layers.
IT'S HARD TO BELIEVE THAT SOMETHING SO BRIGHT, COLORFUL, AND BEAUTIFUL COULD EVER COME FROM SOMETHING SO UGLY.
I surveyed our flower-beds and the landscaped areas we created last summer, and thought about where I wanted to see flowers bloom. I decided to plant the yellow daffodil bulbs underneath the curve of the one-leaf tree.
THE BULB WAS IN A TOMB.
The bulb had to be planted in an earthen tomb, or it could not bloom. Last October, I designedly planted spring-hope in little tombs all across our flower beds.
SOMETIMES...
THAT'S ALL WE CAN DO.
PLANT.
TRUST.
WALK AWAY.
WAIT.
KEEP TRUSTING.
The winter-wait can be long and dark. As spring approaches without marked signs of life, it can be unbearable. It's definitely been a long, dark winter here. In truth, it's been a long, dark WEEK!
The snowy, cold weather broke last week, and I've been keenly watching for any sign that the bulbs I transplanted survived. Would they burst through their little graves and flourish? Would they break FREE from their dark tombs?
I've been vigilant in checking the curve under the (currently) no-leaf tree for signs of life that the daffodils persevered through the winter and lived through their big replant. So far, there have been no signs of life. I investigated the hope of tulip patches and hycinth row. Nothing.
Deep in my bones...
I NEED THESE FLOWERS TO BLOOM.
I NEED THESE FLOWERS TO LIVE.
I feel desperate that if they don't make it, maybe we won't either. I need a SIGN that life will make it, that we will make it, that...
SOMEHOW...
SOME WAY...
EVERYTHING IS GOING TO BE OKAY!
I did my rounds yesterday checking for any evidence that my flowers lived, and I couldn't believe what I found.
I WAS SEARCHING FOR HOPE IN THE WRONG PLACE.
The flower-bed we ripped from end to end, the flower-bed where we pulled out every bulb, big and small, the flower-bed where I sifted the ground through my fingers and raked through the dirt with my hands yanking out every weed, flower, seed, sign of life, good or bad...
THE FLOWER-BED HAS A SURVIVOR!
As much as I want my other bulbs to break through their dark-ground graves and explode into rainbows of spring color, it matters little for this one tiny crocus. One tiny crocus hung on despite the odds that it shouldn't have survived. One tiny crocus burst forth with the first hope of spring. One tiny crocus, about the size of a nickel, changed EVERYTHING in my heart.
I'M GOING TO BE OKAY.
YOU'RE GOING TO BE OKAY.
KEEP TRUSTING.
WINTER WILL END.
SPRING WILL ARRIVE.
For today, I will hold on to the hope that one tiny crocus has brought, and I hope you will hold on, too.
YOU ARE NOT ALONE.
"And now, God, do it again—
bring rains to our drought-stricken lives, so those who planted their crops in despair will shout hurrahs at the harvest, so those who went off with heavy hearts will come home laughing with armloads of blessing." (Psalm 125:4-6 MSG)
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All is grace,
