Day #35--signs and wonders

Just because we're sheltering in place doesn't mean we don't take visitors. When these guys show up--and they're doing so far more regularly a year after the third 100-year flood in a row--it's an occasion for rejoicing here in the Schaap house.

It's still early spring; grays and browns still abound. Lifeless detritus--look at the grass this guy's in--still dominates in the death-like way it has since late November. So when someone like this gentleman shows, we should be creating a festival.

The truth?--I was washing dishes when all of a sudden, from the window, I spotted these hearty souls proclaiming life anew. It's spring, right, and while emerald is hard to come by on any other square inch of our backyard, these warriors, hearing the call, triumphed from the grave. Just a couple of days later, two blessed blooms appeared, bright yellow beauties.

Then this, our backyard. 

Sunday, April 12, I took the picture. We suffered a disgusting snowstorm that might well have been beautiful any other time of year. Left a blanket over everything, which might have been forgivable if we hadn't so consistently battled temperatures below the freezing mark All. Week. Long. Those six inches of snow insisted on staying around.

Our backyard garden lies between two field stone retaining walls blizzards are eager to fill. Even though the winter we've just been through wasn't nightmarish, in March, before any thaw at all, two feet covered most everything in a giant sling drift that might have seemed elegant if we didn't see the same clog every winter. 

You can guess where this is going. That sweet parade of promise up top there, some kind of daffodils, I think, lay cold as death itself beneath the deepest snow in our entire backyard. Six to eight inches covered all that joy until last Saturday, the 18th, which was our first halfway balmy day, when finally that white drift melted away. 

I thought all that spring delight was history. You got to love their blessed annual temerity, but a foot of snow covering them for all that time convinced me their life story had been written.

Voila!

Okay, the blossoms have been in a brawl, but they're still there, still full of early spring color. Hope has not been blasted, and there's at least a bit of a promise of more.

We could do much worse on the Day 35 of our enforced isolation. There are three points in that daffy story, all lined up, ready for service.  You don't need me to write the sermon, so I'll just quit and give thanks.