Daffodils are not the brightest bulbs.
Yes, I know they are floral bulbs and yellow, but let’s be serious. While all the other flowers and trees in my yard were hiding beneath the earth, daffodils ignored the fact that spring hasn’t sprung yet again.
They blissfully go about their growing business without taking into account that no matter what the calendar says, the weather is experiencing some sort of mid-seasonal weather crisis.
If daffodils were a dog, I would imagine them much like the Brazilian Mastiff my family owned. Cookie was as sweet as her namesake and shared about the same mental prowess. In spite of her size, she never saw herself as bigger than a Chihuahua and enjoyed curling up on our laps. All one hundred or so pounds of her.
Hilariously, her reputation as the big, scary dog spread far and wide, although the only danger she really posed was the likelihood of licking someone to death. She never stopped hoping for a few pats or a welcoming lap.
When I see daffodils blooming away while snowflakes sting my cheeks, and my hands are busily scraping ice from a windshield, I have to admire their hope, too.
As we humans moan and groan at what feels like the one millionth day of winter, daffodils never fall into doubt. Their hope in spring is certain.
As a believer, I too have a certain hope. A hope of eternal life in Christ. That hope is my inspiration to write.
I think that’s a really good thing.
Especially since it is currently January 114th.