We are sick to death of cold and gray.
We are hungering for new life.
We are thirsty for warmth to creep back into the earth again,
Into our limbs.
We are craving hope.

It feels so long since we last had hope.
Our dreams feel so far away.

Plant a seed in the ground.
Cover it with the hard, grainy earth that gets under your nails
And makes you nervous because now you’re dirty.
Pat it down to freeze again.
Water it with your tears.

Weep and wait.

We fear it will not come up.

Weep and wait.

We hate waiting.
We start wondering if God cares about us at all.

Let me tell you a secret: He does,
And He makes no secret about it.

We feel that the cold will not let up.
The wind lashes our bodies, freezing the tears on our faces.
We think the ice in the earth has killed the seed we planted.
We rise to go.
We brush ourselves off.

But then we look down
And we see —
A thin shoot of the tenderest green
Poking its tiny head above the black earth.
It does not seem to rise exactly where we planted it —
As if it has moved,
Or we have.
It looks as if one breath will send it back into the void —
But then we realize that it has pushed its way through the ice.
It is strong.

Water it with your tears —
Tears of grief,
Tears of joy,
Tears of hope so good it cannot be true,
And yet it is.
Weep and wait.

Spring comes slowly,
Then suddenly,
And before we know it,
We are surrounded by white blossoms and sweet shades of green,
And our hope is alive and well.

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