The landscape in Pennsylvania, for the most part, still frowns with the weight of winter.
Trees raise their arms in surrender to a blank sky.
After church this morning, my youngest daughter pulls on a double layer of pants and says, “Mom, let’s go on a hunt for daffodils.” (How can I not follow her outside? I’m struck by how I need to listen to and follow children more often.)
The hunt! I put on my winter coat, and my old camera dangles from the strap around my wrist.
We journey to the side of the house, the hidden territory in front of the gate. With frozen fingers and faces, we hunt.
We hunt, and we find.
Lilies burst forth; daffodils announce victory over winter.
To hunt means to chase relentlessly.
Lord, let me be relentless in my hunt for hope.
Journal: What gives me hope today?