The Parable of the Crocus
I pulled out my Bible to read this morning. I had no idea where to turn. I've just finished reading through Nehemiah, a study that was really, deeply meaningful for me. Finding my footing on the journey down from a mountaintop is always treacherous. I began in Hosea, skimmed some Psalms, read a chapter in second Timothy. Nothing resonated. Nothing jumped out. And I wanted so badly to connect with what I was reading today.
My hands started to close my Bible when I felt a whisper.
Stay. Linger here just a little longer.
I opened the book again. "But where?" I asked.
Anywhere. Just stay.
I opened to Matthew. I had in mind what I wanted to find in Scripture today, but those words weren't there. I wanted to read about growing in the winter seasons. I wanted to relate something to the hardy crocuses outside my window, those tiny sprouts that grow when the sun warms them and hold fast when the snow again piles up around them. I wanted to see how they were like me, how their resilience and ability to stay when what they thought was a growing season had ended, could translate into my own life.
I read about the sign of Jonah, about how his three days in the belly of a fish related to Jesus' three days in the tomb. I had never considered that before, and I marveled at how interconnected every part of my faith is. The smallest detail, the littlest thing is somehow still connected to the very heart of the story. Amazing.
Stay. Linger.
So I started to write. To formulate thoughts.
That was it. The crocuses were like me. I had just been in a sunny stretch. The warmth of the morning light, the soft, thawed earth. I had sent up shoots--weak at first, then growing stronger--from under the ground. And now they stood, exposed. The weather had changed. The growing season had ended. My shoot stood surrounded by snow, the ground beneath me frozen. No wonder I felt raw and exposed. Everything in me wanted to retreat, to pull my tender leaves back under the ground where it was safe and warm. I even wished I hadn't begun to grow.
Stay.
No growth is ever wasted. No winter is ever eternal. No tender crocus shoot is ever as fragile as it seems.
I've watched these tiny plants all season. I laid them in the ground in the fall, eagerly anticipating their first signs of life in the spring. But they've surprised me. All winter they've slowly grown. With each thaw, each sunny day, they've sent trusting green fingers up out of the earth. Each time opportunity has seized them, they've grown. Faithfully, slowly, they've stretched upward. Each time the weather has changed, they've stayed strong. The wind has whipped them, the snow has covered them, the ground has frozen under them. But they've stayed. The growth has held fast. They've waited patiently, trusting. They've stood strong, lingered, waiting in the place they last grew for the next growing season. There has been no retreat. There has been no withering.
Stay. Linger. The sun will come again, and I will meet you here.
My hands started to close my Bible when I felt a whisper.
Stay. Linger here just a little longer.
I opened the book again. "But where?" I asked.
Anywhere. Just stay.
I opened to Matthew. I had in mind what I wanted to find in Scripture today, but those words weren't there. I wanted to read about growing in the winter seasons. I wanted to relate something to the hardy crocuses outside my window, those tiny sprouts that grow when the sun warms them and hold fast when the snow again piles up around them. I wanted to see how they were like me, how their resilience and ability to stay when what they thought was a growing season had ended, could translate into my own life.
I read about the sign of Jonah, about how his three days in the belly of a fish related to Jesus' three days in the tomb. I had never considered that before, and I marveled at how interconnected every part of my faith is. The smallest detail, the littlest thing is somehow still connected to the very heart of the story. Amazing.
Stay. Linger.
So I started to write. To formulate thoughts.
That was it. The crocuses were like me. I had just been in a sunny stretch. The warmth of the morning light, the soft, thawed earth. I had sent up shoots--weak at first, then growing stronger--from under the ground. And now they stood, exposed. The weather had changed. The growing season had ended. My shoot stood surrounded by snow, the ground beneath me frozen. No wonder I felt raw and exposed. Everything in me wanted to retreat, to pull my tender leaves back under the ground where it was safe and warm. I even wished I hadn't begun to grow.
Stay.
No growth is ever wasted. No winter is ever eternal. No tender crocus shoot is ever as fragile as it seems.
I've watched these tiny plants all season. I laid them in the ground in the fall, eagerly anticipating their first signs of life in the spring. But they've surprised me. All winter they've slowly grown. With each thaw, each sunny day, they've sent trusting green fingers up out of the earth. Each time opportunity has seized them, they've grown. Faithfully, slowly, they've stretched upward. Each time the weather has changed, they've stayed strong. The wind has whipped them, the snow has covered them, the ground has frozen under them. But they've stayed. The growth has held fast. They've waited patiently, trusting. They've stood strong, lingered, waiting in the place they last grew for the next growing season. There has been no retreat. There has been no withering.
Stay. Linger. The sun will come again, and I will meet you here.
