Every year, for the dozen years that we’ve lived in this home, I plan on planting tulip and daffodil bulbs.
Usually, this idea shows up in my head around the beginning of February.
I live in the beautiful state of Michigan where we have a hearty, flurry-filled, snow-banks-until-April sort of winter. And as much as I love to look out my windows at the falling snowflakes, by February I’m ready to move on to spring. Thus, the idea of anticipating little daffodil heads popping up out of the snow causes me to think to myself, “This fall, for sure, I will plan those bulbs!”
But then September comes and goes. October comes and goes. And somehow I just didn’t find the time to plant those bulbs. Thanksgiving. Christmas.
My commitment to planting—my good intentions of planting—take the back seat to other more pressing matters; and then it is too late.
And before I know it, I am once again staring out the window in February wishing I had found the time to plant those bulbs!
I turn 53 this year and the idea of eternity is becoming more real, more vivid in my heart and soul. Every new day really is a blessing that fills my heart with gratitude. Like the tulip bulbs, it occurs to me that I don’t want to find myself in a position where I am overcome with regret wishing I had taken the time to do the things that I had been called to do; rather, I want to joyfully serve God through family and friends and circumstances and opportunities so that one day I might see Him face-to-face and know that I planted the bulbs He expected me to plant.