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A rainy Sunday morning in Vermont, the end of March – with rain spitting snow and rivulets of melting snow running down streets. Boots on, shiverish weather still, and my husband and I are sloshing into a mini mart to grab eggs for a Sunday breakfast with friends.

While paying the $2.29 at the counter the friendly lady there looked out at the dismal scene out the window and remarked with passion, “I want spring to come.” Yeah. I nodded in agreement and said, “It is a process, but things are melting, after all.”

“But I need to see a crocus to believe that!” the lady almost moaned in response.

“Oh,” I remembered, “On Thursday a friend at my school said she saw her first crocus in her yard here in town.” The lady brightened a bit.

“Yes, you can have it too! A secondhand crocus for spring!” That last one I called out cheerily over my shoulder as we left with our eggs.

Outside the door I heard, “that is your next blog.” It was very clear in my spirit.
Cute. But what besides that do I say?

The next morning I realized that we as people carry the desire for living, green, sprouting things like a garden in out hearts. Spring is the time of the beauty and the simplicity of change from cold, still hiddenness, to things coming alive again. This very day it was a cloudy day, with rough breezes still, and old piles of melting snow receding to reveal dead, hay-like grasses underneath. Seek as I might, I saw nothing green, or newly sprouting outside, but in my heart garden I know that spring is coming indeed, and I can imagine the light green grass, and the newly budding trees soon to come and I can tell people that someone spotted a purple crocus in their yard. You can have it for yourself, also, for a promise of new things to come.

“While the earth remains, seedtime and harvest, cold and heat, summer and winter, and day and night shall not cease.” (God’s promise, in Genesis 8:22)

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