Thursday, April 10, 2014


Yesterday the girls came running in, Fiona with a smudge of dirt right across the bridge of her nose, both with hair ratted right up by the passing of the breeze as they whipped around the block on their bikes. My girls are 7 and 9 now, so small. They hop up and down in excitement on the rug, unwilling to remove their mud-encrusted shoes but knowing I'd be less than happy if they tracked it all through the house.

"Mom! Moooooooom! Come quick! They're here!"

 I peek into the kitchen to see and there they are. My two girls holding out tiny bouquets of blue flowers - my blue flowers. Scilla that come up every year right about now. They don't miss a year, hunting and hunting to find me the very first ones, filling little cups with wild flowers and setting them around the house.

This time of year is always one of growth and stretching for me. The concentration of family birthdays, the memories of bringing babies into a world of spring rains and budding trees, the ending of Lent and the hard-hitting realities of Holy Week...I feel each and every moment. The first day we keep the kitchen windows open all day. The first time the baby toddles over the uneven ground out back. Calling the kids in after a long day outside and the way they smell when they come reluctantly back in - like dirt and wind and joy.

Somehow the combination of healing sunshine and the gradually spreading of green in the backyard softens the ache in me like nothing else possibly could. Even in the mud and mess, the redemption of the long winter and the promise of coming warmth steadies me and gives each morning the unmistakable air of possibility.

I open my hands and my girls fill them with flowers and another Spring has come.

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