It started with a crocus or two. Delicate blossoms like bright purple tissue paper, twisted.
Then, later, the daffodils bloomed. Just two, opening on a cold rainy morning that left them covered with ice, but they endured. Now dozens of yellow faces smile along the sidewalk and white ones wait to open.
Yesterday it was brilliant pink Hyacinths, tucked in between the foundation and walk-way.
This spring, our first in this old farm house, is a season of seeking and finding, a treasure hunt as we wait to see what will arise from the barren branches, the quiet earth.
I remember going in to my children’s rooms in the morning when they were new, young buds fresh from the womb. I unwrapped their swaddles with delight as one opens a present, a gift given and growing and now I see that they were wrapped, new buds like the daffodils, waking each morning to face the sun.
Twice now in the month since we bought our home, individuals have stopped by to drop off keys to our house. Friends and caretakers of the late owner, they come bearing stories and photos.
We received this property as one does an inheritance, which is to say aware that we are just one chapter in a long story of life and love and loss. It may sound strange, since we bought the house outright. But John and I have both felt it, the weight of this place, its enormity, the sense of a gift beyond what we knew to ask for or could command in our own right.
Spring is the season of inheritance, of gifts beyond our asking. The flowers that bloom bright and unexpected, planted by another or by no one at all.
Spring is the dinner party, the dazzling spectacle of bright delight to which we are all invited.
Yes, yes, THIS, it is for you, dear one.
Spring is the gospel season, the good news pure and bright, and buried within it lies the pearl of great price.
Counting the careful kept coins in my purse, it's clear that I can't afford to buy this field, this pearl, this joy.
But spring whispers, inviting.
The children wake, waiting.
Joy beckons like the ocean deep.
Feeling the sun upon my shoulders, I turn like the daffodils, the crocus, the hyacinth, from winter’s heavy weight, opening to receive what I could not buy.
This post is linked with Playdates With God.
Stop back this Tuesday for a review of Michelle Derusha's new memoir, "Spiritual Misfit." Leave a comment on Tuesdays post for a chance to win a free copy!