I’m no gardener, but this past October I planted tulip bulbs in the ground and shared more from the batch with some dear friends. As winter approached, I bought amaryllis bulbs, planted two in pots, and gave away still more. I wasn’t looking for a new hobby, and I don’t revel working in the dirt.

I planted because I needed to believe that something as ugly and dry as a bulb could surprise me by sprouting, growing, and blooming. I needed the possibility of the picture of resurrection, and I needed witnesses to walk along with me in it.

Hope is fragile, and it can be elusive. As my kids grow into their late teens, and as I seek vocation and new meaning from life, I find so much unknown, and it scares me. We are each of us walking winding roads these days, with a mixture of joys and lessons-still-to learn. It’s hard to see where these roads might lead, and trust has never been my strongest suit. It was so much easier when the kids were younger and I could choose everything for them, when the world was as small as their elementary school and soccer fields. It’s different now, and so are they, and so am I.

Now, when the world feels utterly unpredictable, I need to hold hope in my hands…

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