A glimmer of weak sunshine makes its way to the cedar trees. Except for the plow’s leavings, the snow is gone. Early February here is that bleak time of year when winter’s frozen glory has retreated and spring’s promise yet to arrive.
I sigh at the rotting leaves of autumn-neglected hostas and alder until I discover rosy peeks of peony tips emerging through the clutter. Even the winter pansies under the boxwood have survived their snowy burial and flaunt sturdy green and purple.
There is promise here after all. Promise enough for hope to flutter its gentle heartbeat on the cusp of wonder.
Rejoice in hope, be patient in tribulation, be constant in prayer.
For in this hope we were saved. Now hope that is seen is not hope. For who hopes for what he sees? But if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.