Snowdrops

Beginning in February, even as snow is still on the ground, my mother searches for the first sign of her favorite flower, snowdrops. “I just love snowdrops. I’ve always been amazed at their persistence, and I love their shy, drooping heads,” mom declares with a loving respect. Of all the flowers in the world, their humble size and lovely but modest appearance may cause you to wonder why anyone would choose the snowdrop. After all, in competition with roses, hydrangeas, and sunflowers, all showier in their way, the unpretentious snowdrop should not be an award-winner. But let me tell you about my mother’s choice.

My mother, Elma, grew up on a farm in the north of Scotland where cold winds blustered across the gray, wintery landscape. The backdrop of World War II loomed as an ever-present reality. There was no running water, electricity or heat in her family’s home. Everyone stayed warm by wearing hand-knitted sweaters and thigh-high socks, and sleeping under layers of woolen blankets, also hand-knitted. No matter the season, hard work + ingenuity + grace kept her family going. Growing up in this harsh environment, why would Mom even notice such an unassuming flower?

But into this world, can you imagine how you might feel when you saw the first sign of spring? My mother felt a thrill of hope — hope that the seemingly interminable, weary winter and global horrors might soon be over, ushering in a new season of sunlight, green growing things, and peace.

You might think the first signs of spring are daffodils or budding trees. But no — the first clue comes while the snow is melting, long before the days begin to warm. As my mother tells it, when the snow melts, you can see a tiny green shoot valiantly pushing its way through the hard, frozen ground. How on earth does this miraculous shoot arduously force its way up, against all odds?

In this Lenten season, we well may ask similar questions: where is God in the wilderness places of our souls? Perhaps you felt the wilderness in your heart began long before Ash Wednesday. Where is God when it is dark and cold and just plain hard? When things need to change, and they don’t? What invitation does the wilderness hold for our longing hearts? Honestly, do we even want those invitations? As Jordan has been teaching us, where is Jesus’ teleios taking us?

Life begins with a battle. Pushing laboriously down the birth canal, often for hours, a baby’s first breath is preceded by extreme effort. A farmer plants seeds in the earth. In the dark soil a tiny sprout begins to force its way upward, pushing against heavy dirt and pressure. A caterpillar strenuously sheds its skin five times before building its pupa, then wrestles out of its chrysalis two weeks later, emerging gloriously as a butterfly. Nature provides an exquisite pattern for spiritual formation. The wilderness struggle can be a crucible of transformation of grace and strenuous effort as new life takes root in the darkness. How can we trust God in the dark?

As I sit in conversation with Jesus about my desires and trusting God, I want to be formed in the way of Jesus. What does God want to do in my soul this season on my lifelong journey to becoming a deeper, more authentic carrier of His love and light to my family, my friends and neighbors, this world, and even to myself in this moment? Hope has always been an important word to me because I do not come by it naturally. God has been “digging in the dirt of my desires” (Jordan’s words) for some time. When I consider the limitless love of our Trinitarian God for their created, I am learning to trust that rich Kingdom treasures exist in the dark soil, beckoning me to lean in closer to God, with raw honesty and surrender.

At 98 years, my mother still delights in snowdrops, now from the garden of her Michigan home. Their shy, drooping heads speak to her of the reality of God’s presence in the unseen world, of perseverance, resilience, and hope, qualities she and Jesus have cultivated together in her life. Snowdrops nurture Mom’s soul in the mystery of Jesus’ death and resurrection. Each day after the snow partially melted (before more snowfall, because, well, Michigan), she asked me expectantly, “Did you see little green shoots today?” Her sharp mind and tender heart keep hoping for green, grace-filled miracles—miracles she continues to pray and long for in our family and world.

I wonder if there are snowdrops in every person’s story. What are your harbingers of hope?