He ran into the house. His bright smile gave away his excitement. His hands were full. Full of Narcissus. But that is not what he calls them. To him, 9 year-old Jesse, these yellow, circular flowers whose blooms droop down as if they are looking at the ground, are called buttercups. He does not know that they are named after a young man who thought himself quit beautiful and fell in love with his own reflection. Or that myth tells the young man was transformed into this flower with its head ever facing downward, as if searching for a glimpse of itself in a nearby Spring rain puddle.
These blooms that he ever so carefully and places in jars, glass bottles, and Dollar Tree vases all throughout his house, are the first signs of spring. They have come through the hard, red Georgia clay that we call soil. And they bloom. Their tall stems, sometimes reaching 12 inches tall, act as fairy wands bidding the early evening darkness to give way to more sun. Their frail sunshine-colored petals withstand the last chills of winter. They stand happily in their jars, vases, and vintage coke bottles on the kitchen table.
They decide to make their appearance when all who hold summer in the south near and dear to their hearts think winter is never going to end. They begin telling their story during the season of Lent: forty days before Easter set aside to fast and remember the suffering of Christ. Christ suffered through every tair and trip, every broken heart and beaten body, every collapsed family and crying eye. And then He died. But because of the power of His Father, Creator of the universe, three days later, Christ was brought back to life.
“For He died for us to give us life
And to give us hope He rose” – Hope’s Song