| Written March 12, 2021 Once I planted a massive row of daffodils against a black, split rail fence. The fence was much longer than my blooming row–there was room for me to plant more. Each spring, as a single stem became two, three and four, I separated them and from just one came many more. As long as they were left in the soil, as long as the sun rose high and the rains made their way across the land, this could be so.  I can still feel the spade under my foot and the sound of my cutting the ground through. I had a white bucket where I plopped the divided bulbs in for extending the row. The bulbs were shiny, though spattered with dirt and reminded me of the turtle eggs I once watched a mother turtle lay on the banks of Gar Creek. She was so methodically slow, digging her hole in view of me, using one foot and the other. And when she had finished, she began laying the slick, white eggs inside. At last she covered them up and left the spot as if it had never been disturbed. She tucked in the hope of a clutch of baby turtles and I tucked in the hope of many spring daffodils.  I remember when I had no use for daffodils, no love for dividing their creamy bulbs, and when I secretly had lost hope in God. It was in the middle of the night that I woke desperate for a word from Him. I had been bleeding for days and with every lost drop my wee baby was drifting away from me into the “other-land”. “Lord! What will be the outcome?” Some said if I had enough faith, all would be well. Others said, “just pray”. In the night, I opened to a verse that read, “I will perfect that which concerns you.” My hope was roused! “My child will live!” But when I found my child was dead, I quietly closed my heart door and did not hope in God’s voice anymore. How could I have misunderstood Him? And this was when hope began to offend me.But I think hope must be written on every atom of a daffodil bulb for this is what they speak to me now. Planted hope, dividing and multiplying hope, one must decide what to do with it–plant it or turn it away. Some years ago, I read a story of a man who hoped deeply in the love of God. He climbed to great heights, but would fall to very, great lows of sin again and again. He said God’s love was greater than we dare to imagine, that God loved us “as we were, not as we should be.” I knew well the pains of trying to be how I “should be”, but I did not know how to hope in a love that still wanted me just as I am. I flung the man’s book across the room. This hope was an offense to me too. It was much too good to be true. But God IS much too good to be true. This week, I followed him out the door, the 10 year old boy, my young friend, who had finished his school work and had found something lovely to share outside. It was near the end of my work day and I was finishing up. I wasn’t sure I had time to follow him and to see. “Come with us!” He had convinced his mother to follow him too. Out the door, across the road, he told me to jump over the watery ditch and follow him. Across the long field we walked when he said, “Close your eyes!” we were getting closer, so I set my eyes at my feet and followed him wondering. When we had come to his happy spot he said, “Open your eyes!”  And there I saw what I had once lost, but had found again. There was great multiplication before me like when I had taken the sweet bulb and planted it against the fence time and time again. It was a meadow in full bloom and that is what hope has made of me too. |
The Offense of Hope
Hinterhaus Journal 
Oh, Rhonda! This so touched me I sighed deeply and held back the tears. I so love our God and you. Thanking Him and you for your gift. But you have not sent me the new link to your book. Please I have been patiently biting at the bit for you to let me finish reading it.
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