I’m unduly fond of the little crocus flower with its white fuzz showing up like the tiny hairs on Grandma’s chin in the sun. When I was a child I brought Grandma a fistful of prairie crocus blooms as soon as they poked through last season’s dead leaves of grass. Grandpa would say, “Well, we made it through another winter, Ma. There’s your proof.”
We made it through.
Thank you, Lord.