We push fingers into dark soil, scooping out vaults. Then with brazen hands we press small brown bulbs into the earth and claim they'll rise again.
Burying them, covering them, we smooth the ground and walk away, with nary a trace of them left.
It feels like a swindlers trick, a money scam, and yet every few years I peruse bags, choose colors, and plop money down.
my Dad's death, the one year anniversary of it came and went October 27th.
While heaven's hello is still far off, I know the results of pressing violet, fuchsia, and yellow tulip bulbs into the ground, along with tall bobbing purple alium heads. I've seen them. Can't deny them. I look forward to seeing them each year, and have been bowled over by the gorgeous beauty that springs from them.
Bold, brave, audacious flowers erupt each year from dark empty-looking dirt. I've seen it. I know it to be true.
And so I peruse bags, choose colors, and pick up my dusty trowel. It looks different at the end. The splendorous results are nothing like the simple bulbs I handle now, and I know it to be true. Life will come. This is not the end.
"Mom, when are they here?" Daniel asks impatiently, popping his head in the door.
"Soon, buddy! Want to climb a tree?"
He dashes out, eager for his big brother, sister-in-law, and sister to arrive.
For hours into the night, six of us smiled giddy at our pumpkins, imagining their faces, picturing who they would be. We carved and cut, deliberated and decorated. Deep dish pizza slices dripped juices and oil onto small plates. Tangy lime papaya cubes glistened as we popped them in our mouths.
But the bold dares? The audacious hopes? They seem less daring as the evidence piles up, as each year's experiences and gifts stack before me.
Our God's gifts are constant, tender, daily as the sun. His presence is there. He walks beside us. Some gifts are now. Some gifts we await.
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