The daffodils are in bloom again. They are all over the land, everywhere I go, to church, to school, to home, they are springing out of the earth, yellow and greenly announcing that spring has arrived. Small ones, bright ones, light, dark, rich yellows, all of them have bravely faced the new season’s winds and rains to gaily sing out their joy of winter’s exit.
Every time I see the daffodils, I think of my grandmother. She has planted so many bulbs of daffodils in her yard over the years, collecting them from places across the country and the world, bringing them to her home, to plant in winter, to see their emerging after the long dark months.
And then as I think of her, I think of the struggles she has gone through. Losing a daughter, my namesake. Her continuing battle with cancer for the past eight years. Her growing weariness, and yet still her joy. I think of her giving and service to her church. Her patience as she saw six grandchildren grow up around her. Her joy in travel, and allowing us to come with her. Her love for my grandfather. The tables she sets for family birthdays. The pond and creek that she and my grandfather built on their land.
And all those daffodils that keep blooming, and coming out to shine through the rain, storms, nights full of mysteries, coming out to bloom in the brightness of each morning.
The daffodils remind me of her love.