Several weeks ago I spied 2-inch-high sprouts in my flower bed. "Go back," I warned. "Go back!" Heavy snow was forecast. But those little guys didn't listen to me and my fear. They were too intent on growing. Now, the last few days of sun has finally melted away most of the several feet of snow that had buried my little buddies and they looked none the worse for the snowy assault they'd survived. Yesterday I oh-so-delicately shoveled away the last piles of snow at the end of the bed, uncovering a tangle of smooshed leaves and stalks. Oh dear. I figured that losing only these few plants was a pretty good turnout for the severe winter.
But then I happened to glance at the flower bed a few hours later. Right where broken leaves and bent stalks had lain, I saw upright plants--I could almost hear "Ta-Da . . . we MADE it!!"
When we are designed to grow, and not merely grow but bud and blossom, that imperative carries us through the coldest, harshest times.
I'm following the lead of my daffodil buddies and hollering, "Ta-Da . .. I made it!"