and I wondered to myself
as I came and went —
to and from,
back and forth,
weighed down by obligation and responsibility:
“what might be growing beneath the surface,
working its way up from the rocks 
on the edge of our driveway?”

then, one day
from the green shoots:
a pop of color!
yet blossoms still closed,
waiting for warmer weather 
to refresh the mundane and the bare
and the lingering desolation of winter’s touch.

that night, the ground froze,
and another blast of icy breath
made the trees shudder
and the skies grey
and the winds haunting.
and the green shoots and closed blossoms 
seemed to wither and withdraw,
collapsing against the frozen earth.

I wondered then
if all was wasted —
it seemed the dead leaves
and the cold ground
and the rocks on the edge of our driveway 
were just as sullen and barren
as they had first appeared.

and I shook my head, betrayed
by hope, and disappointment.

the next day,
as I walked from our porch down the path
and my feet crackled and crunched on the gravel,
there! up from the green shoots
and the dead leaves,
cloaked with dew droplets
from the mist of the morning…
flowers!

like golden lion’s manes
starkly shimmering,
impossible to ignore 
as they lifted their vibrant faces toward the sun.

and I stopped.
and I wondered.

not even Solomon in all his glory
was arrayed like one of these.

delicate, cheerful pockets of yellow,
each daintily poised,
with intricate veins and textures and structures
I never could have crafted or manufactured,
or even dreamed.

the joy of Another’s design
made me pause 
in the midst of my to and from
and back and forth
and going and doing.

as I crouched beside the flowers there,
maybe looking the fool
nearly on my knees among the dead leaves,
I couldn’t help but admire.
marvel.
appreciate.

isn’t that what they’re there for,
after all?

and I wondered if,
in the hustle and grind
and the pursuit of being a mastermind of something magnificent
while demonstrating productivity through hurry,
would I discover more serenity 
and less anxiety
if I stopped
to consider the lilies of the field?

to see that He
clothes the flowers in garments of glory?
— though today they bloom
and tomorrow fade into obscurity?

does He not equally delight
in providing for our every need?
will He not grow
— even from the dead things and the broken places,
from the rocky ground and the frozen soil —
what He has planted with a purpose?

in the silence of the cold night
and the cruelty of the biting hail
and the struggle of the green shoots against the wasteland,
can the obstinate splendor
of unexpected joy in unexpected places
give us a glimpse of what He is doing?

what if His answer 
to questions like: 
“where are You in this?”
is less of a perfect play-by-play
of the unsearchable mind of God
and more of a tender whisper:

I am right here,
right here in front of you,
right here alongside you.

amid the dead leaves
and the damp earth
and the rocks on the edge of the driveway

here I am
in the tear-soaked, baffling beauty
of the daffodils.