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I did not look for it this year, but it happened. This morning’s sunshine drenched the single gold crocus emerging from a spray of striped leaves in my front garden, bare save for mulch and shrubs. For sixteen years this crocus has bloomed in the same spot and dissipated February’s flummoxing antics.

Such blooming recalls Creator God’s artistry and timing: It’s thrilling to be a part of it.

For eight Februarys, a single gold crocus has pushed through the mulch in my flowerbed, preening its petals within the morning sun. Its blooming, in the same place, seems to proclaim, “I’m back! Take heart!” Solitary in its uniqueness, it streams hope: beneath winter’s apparent grip, life does persist.

Its burst of sweetness evokes deep questions. How does one learn to stand apart from collective norms and witness to ultimate truth? How to express one’s findings in the face of killing winds? How to relish one’s solitude in pursuit of the Sacred?

Responding to such questions opens many doors, perceived as locked; behind them, untarnished treasures abound for still further exploration.

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For seven Februarys, a single gold crocus has pushed through the mulch in my flowerbed, preening its petals within the morning sun. Its recurrence seems to proclaim, “I’m back! Take heart!” Solitary in its uniqueness, it streams hope: beneath winter’s apparent grip, life does persist.

Its burst of sweetness evokes deep questions. How does one learn to stand apart from collective norms and witness to ultimate truth? How to express one’s findings in the face of killing winds? How to relish one’s solitude in pursuit of the Sacred?

Responding to such questions opens many doors, perceived as locked; behind them, untarnished treasures abound for still further exploration.

 

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