Daffodils and Hope

Monday was a gloriously warm spring day and my front yard was bursting with yellow as my daffodils turned their pretty horn-shaped petals to the sun. It was almost impossible to believe the forecast for the rest of the week: clouds, wind, and snow.  As Wednesday approached, meteorological rumors about another bomb cyclone started circulating.  Really? Witnessing the intense blizzard a month ago had been incredible, but would it really happen again? As more people said those words I started to worry for my beautiful daffies, blooming in the same place as the 4 foot drifts of snow settled after the last storm.  Daffodils are pretty snow hardy, but I knew they couldn’t withstand the weight of that much snow.

I gathered all the buckets and planter pots I could find in the garage and as the sleet started to fall on Wednesday morning, I covered as many of the daffodils as I could. I put heavy rocks on top to hold the buckets in place and kept watch out the window as the storm blew in.  We did see lots of wind.  It was definitely cold.  Snow fell on and off. But thankfully, the bomb cyclone of April didn’t hit us the way it did in March.  I was pleasantly surprised as I lifted the buckets off on Thursday morning to see my daffodils safe and sound and still erect. Their neighbors, who I couldn’t cover, were laying their still-sunny-colored heads on the ground in defeat, but the ever powerful sun popped out and warmed the earth and by the end of the day, even most of the storm-weary flowers had made a partial recovery.

It has continued to snow on and off all week, with less intensity.  Each day as I check on my flowers I’m amazed at the way they continue to weather the storms and perk up for the sun.  They aren’t perfect-looking like they were last week, but they continue to be a symbol of hope in the sun, like my own hope in the Son.

All this thinking about daffodils has taken my mind back to an Easter season 16 years ago when I felt much like a daffodil crushed under the weight of a springtime storm.  My first foray into motherhood had landed me in the NICU with a baby whose outlook was grim, at best, and who was fighting each day to survive to the next. It was a heartbreaking time. A time of anxiety and going-through-the-motions living.  I remember that I often didn’t feel much, which I think was my heart’s coping mechanism to avoid being irreversibly broken. I spent my days keeping vigil at the beside of my boy inside the maze of Kosair Children’s Hospital and often didn’t leave until it was dark out.  

One day, however, I was heading home in the daylight. As we turned the bend on the freeway, a most amazing sight was suddenly filling up my view: a wall of blooming and bright yellow daffodils.  Someone had planted the entire median between the north and south bound lanes with thousands of daffodils. It took my breath away and in the same moment the Spirit spoke to my very broken heart.  The message was this: Spring will always come! Rebirth, renewal, hope, the glorious messages of Spring, are also the eternal messages of Easter.  Because of the ever and all powerful Son, I have hope.  My baby has hope. Those daffodils gave me hope that whether in this life or the next, someday my baby’s broken body and my own broken heart would be healed.  

I’m so grateful for a loving Heavenly Father who planned Spring with its telestial reminders of the most important Spring of all: the year the Savior came to save us all from mortality and raise us up to eternity. As the sun brings us hope that the earth will awaken once again, the SON gives me hope that I, too, can be reborn and return to live with Him again.

Easter Hope

The last time Easter fell on April 20th was 2003. That date is stuck in my brain because it was the year Dallin was born.  His birth, on March 23, 2003, was difficult, and as Easter approached, he was still struggling every day.  We were waiting for the benchmarks of enough caloric intake, lower bilirubin levels and blood counts that could sustain his body without further transfusion.

I looked at the calendar, at Easter day, April 20th, and in my heart I hoped that my baby would be home by then.  It kind of became my little secret wish. I didn't dare say it out loud, but in my prayers I pleaded, "Home for Easter. Home for Easter."

Although he was getting stronger, Dallin did not make it home by Easter.  He drank from a bottle for the first time that day. We were elated! It was improvement, but not enough.

I've thought about that hope many times since, and although he didn't come home that day, the hope of Easter, hope in the Savior, is ultimately what brought me peace.  Hope in His life and His resurrection; hope in His gospel and His priesthood; hope in covenants made in the temple; hope that no matter the outcome for my baby in this life, he would be mine throughout eternity because of the One who came to save.

By the following Easter, my miracle boy was not only home, but healing: growing, learning, crawling around to find plastic eggs and putting the basket on his head. My busy, darling one-year-old was such a gift to me. He is still a gift. His scary beginning will always be monumental; a time that taught me much about hope in the the Lord and, forever after, shaped my faith.

For that, I am grateful.

on blooming

Last September 24th, after nearly a year of planning and prepping, building, celebrating, crying, making changes and making do, we were finally moving into our house. It was a day much anticipated by everyone, but, as with any big change, also a little bittersweet. We had ended up living in our 9-month rental for 3 years and had many wonderful friends in our neighborhood. The kids, particularly, were sad to leave their bike riding, mud-pie-making, fort-hiding, Lego-building friends behind.
Chad picked up the moving truck Friday night, and on Saturday when the crew of helpers showed up to load it, we were surprised to find the most beautiful potted mum left, secretly, inside. I still don't know who the giver was, but the plant meant so much to me. It was the first thing I unloaded at the new house and it sat proudly on our front porch 'till the snow came.
When the blossoms started to fade, I was so heartbroken...I couldn't just throw it away. So, I planted it, right off the porch, in memory of my first 3 years in Colorado.
By spring, the plant wasn't looking so good. Other plants started to shed their winter brown, but the mum was just as crispy and dead-looking as ever. I started pulling back the leaves and nearly pulled it out of the ground completely, when, like Dicken in "The Secret Garden" I noticed a bit of green. It was wick, it had a light about it! (if you don't know the music from the musical, you must get it today!)
With hope, I made sure my baby plant got water every day, and after a few weeks, it started to revive.
Now, a year later, it is big and beautiful and blooming!

 Like my mum, I have grown a lot this year, too. It took longer than I thought it would to feel like I could bloom in this new place, even though it wasn't so far from my old place. But, I am grateful for the roots that are a pushing down here, for the people around me who have been my sun and water and helped me along, and for the opportunity to keep growing and blooming, year after year, in such a wonderful place as this.

we

I snickered to myself as I pulled the recycling out to the curb this morning.  Twelve years ago (today), I thought getting married meant (in part) never having to take out the garbage again.  I've since come to know that there are some things that just need doing when they stink (trash duty, among other things).

Thankfully, in the last 12 years there are some things I've NEVER had to do (like set or empty mouse traps) and many things I've rarely done (like wash the car) because my mister is good to me that way.  And there are a few things he can always count on my doing, too (like organizing family photos, refilling soap dispensers, grocery shopping).  So we make a good team, this man and I.

So glad we've been WE for these dozen years. 

Here we are, wacky bowling a few weeks ago.

(xoxoxo to my love)

the giver

My grandma was a good giver of gifts. Christmas was her favorite, and she knew how to do it well. She made her famous hand-dipped chocolates, supervisesd Grandpa as he hung the rainbow colored lights on the house, and filled her cookie jar to overflowing.

And, Grandma hosted the annual {marathon of a} family party. It always included good food, a ‘talent show’ by the grandkids, and a re-enactment of the Nativity. The culmination of the evening, the part she joyed in the most, was watching everyone open up presents. She’d sit in her chair, directing traffic. I was the oldest grandchild and the official present-hander-outer. She pointed and told me who got what, and in what order. Sometimes, if she bought people the same thing, she had them open their gifts at the same time. That bit of frenzy always made her laugh.

Grandma didn’t have good health, so she couldn’t trudge through the mall. She was a catalog shopper. This was, of course, before the days of cyber-Monday and Amazon, so she had a huge basket full of catalogs from practically every retailer in the country. She scoured the pages, circling items and dog-ear-marking pages. I discovered that I could get a pretty good ‘sneak peek’ at what the Christmas party held in store if I stealthily perused her catalog stash. When she couldn’t find something by mail order, she’d send Grandpa to ZCMI, ad in hand, with specific instructions on what to pick up. She left nothing to chance (or to Grandpa!). I’m sure her Christmas shopping took the better part of 4 months, but this was the day she lived the rest of the year to witness.

Grandma’s gifts were always just right. She had a keen memory for any casual comments made throughout the year about something you needed or were wishing for. And, often, she found something you didn’t even KNOW you wanted, but was just the perfect thing. Grandma could create magic with her gift-giving.

Nine years ago, Grandma and Grandpa had just returned home from our annual family party. She had joyed, once again, in the giving of just the right gifts. Her heart, I’m sure, was full.

And, then, it stopped. She passed away on Christmas Eve.

I miss Grandma. Especially at this time of year. I’m not sure ‘good gift giving’ is a talent I inherited from her. I’m always stumped and wish she were around to lend advice to my own Christmas list. But, thinking of her and her gift giving ways always reminds me of these words from our Savior:

“Or what man is there of you, whom if his son ask bread, will he give him a stone? Or if he ask a fish, will he give him a serpent. If ye then, being evil, know how to give good gifts unto your children, how much more shall your Father which is in heaven give good things to them that ask him?” ---Matthew 7:9-11

I’ll always be grateful for the ‘good gift’ my Grandma was to me, given by a loving Father. He is the ultimate giver of good gifts, for He gave His Son for whom we celebrate and because of whom we can ‘joy in the giving’ at this Christmas season.

This is me, with a 'thank you, Grandma!' on my lips. Again, the perfect gift!

the beginning

Once upon a Labor Day I opted out of the long-standing family reunion to go camping instead. With lots of friends. And two old boats.

The weekend was sun-filled and friend-filled. And, in the end, I knew my life would never be the same.

Labor Day at Flaming Gorge was the beginning of "us." And, though I'll spare you all the gruesome details of a full moon, a midnight ski, and a love triangle, I will say this...

We owe it all to a broken-down '64 Starcraft, a little push from a best pal named Jacob, and lots long distance phone calls.

Here's to 12 years since 'the Gorge!'

the Southland

And there's somethin' 'bout the Southland in the Springtime

Where the waters flow with confidence and reason
Tho I miss her when I'm gone,
It won't ever be too long
'Til I'm home again to spend my favorite season.
When God made me born a Yankee, He was teasin'.
There's no place like home and nothin' more pleasin'
Than the Southland in the Springtime.

I've always loved the gentle strains of this song, but until you spend a Springtime in the South, I don't think you can fully appreciate that 'something' about it. The air is heavy with the fragrance of blossoms. Everything blooms. Everything. Breathtaking is too simple a word for the splendor of it all.

On a rainy night, during my first Springtime in the South, I entered the hospital, heavy and laboring with Baby. Amid the turbulence of that blustery night, my boy was born. Broken. A few days later, his life hovering and fragile, I was released and sent home. With heavy heart, I watched as the world passed by outside the car window, same as always, while mine seemed to have come to a halting stop. And then, as we rounded a bend in the freeway, the most spectacular sight was before me: an entire hill, the median against the cement of the interstate, covered from top to bottom in blooming daffodils. I gasped. I'd never seen such beauty. The glory of God's green earth had, in that moment, reminded me that after each winter comes the welcome, glorious Spring!

Each year after this, as Springtime approaches, I look with anxiety for the signs: buds beginning to show, leaves unfolding on the trees, flowers sending out their shoots. One blossom, above all others, says "Kentucky" to me: the dogwood. I have never again lived in a place where dogwoods were common, and oh, how I miss them when April rolls around. Four years ago today (plus 10 days...I'm a little slow with the post) I was enjoying the glory of toddlerhood and Springtime and memories of miracles, all among the dogwoods.

The symbolism of Springtime will always have an extra special place in my heart, for my 'home' in Kentucky and for my own Springtime miracle boy. Of this I am sure: when life places the bleakness of Winter on your doorstep, God will always, always send the Spring.