My heart knows when the snowdrops are blooming and often begins to ache. It remembers the sparkling snow, dirt, and debris surrounding the short green leaves and the posture of the white lantern lights that particular year. All appeared hopeless, but providence remained kind. Most of the blooms shined down on me that year. Although resistant, I treasured the blooms that failed to open.
There are no snowdrops in the flower beds of my southern home, so I wrote a note to my favorite gardener inquiring if the snowdrops were blooming at her home, which I love. I longed for a winter journey to see them, but pictures would suffice. I was hesitant to even ask because my heart told me they would not bloom this year, and I was unsure how such knowledge would feel.
My heart broke, but I pushed the pictures to the back of my mind and reminded myself that I was safe now. I must move on. It is not the gardener who causes them to bloom, but my able God who makes them grow.
I regretted considering the snowdrops and wished my heart could forget. I held back tears with deep breathing while pulling stubborn weeds away from my bunches of daffodils that would soon arrive. With his black and white tipped paintbrush tail, my doodle dog raced in circles behind me with a muzzle full of supermarket tulip bulbs and shoots that had already bloomed and died in the plastic pot. He wanted me to chase him to reclaim the stolen bulbs. The rotten thief finally gave them up for a square of Colby Jack.
I waited patiently every morning for sunshine to wake the first daffodil from winter’s sleep to dance with me in the breeze. I cherished these bulbs above all others. I chose them myself. They were my very own. Purchased with my own money. I called them mine. How precious in my sight. I can only see good in them now that they belong to me. Others may overlook their worth, but how I see them will never change.
My treasured daffodil bowed down to the breeze, resting her crown of beauty in my hand. She did not bend with force or fear of the wind but in gentle submission, for she knew her value to me. I lifted her petals and began to sing because she gave me such delight.
Gently cupping her in my hands, I lay myself down on the grass and whispered, “Look up—you may not be perfect, but you matter to me. You are no longer in darkness; now is your time to shine.”
My sweet boy found me in the backyard among the flowers. He had something on his mind. For the first time, he experienced God’s patience and love when hearing the scriptures about doubting Thomas. He said, “I would need evidence, too, and God would never shame me.”
His words caused broken phrases from childhood Sunday school songs to taunt me again, “Why worry when you can pray? Don’t be a doubting Thomas.” I was well acquainted with his feelings and never wanted it for my children. I cupped his sweet face in my hands and asked him, “What does God say about you?”
Our conversation was interrupted by our unruly doodle dog, but we continued walking along the edge of the garden, counting all the daffodils that were just about to open. I expressed concern: “I’m still not sure they will bloom.” My sweet boy looked at me confused and said, “But Mom, look, they are going to bloom!” I smiled, “I’ll believe it when I see it.”
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