Last week, I planted miracles in the ground.  Racing the coming thunderstorm, I spaded the earth and pushed them into the holes.  With one eye on the lightning streaking through the black clouds, I covered them quickly, knowing the rain would soon do the rest.

Little bits of dried up nothing.  Barely a wilted green stem poking out.  Cast-offs, extras, dug up and discarded because they were in the way. 

But next year, they will be little spots of sunshine, miracles of daffodils, tulips, and irises, blooming all along our driveway.

I love driving through farm country in the springtime.  The random patch of daffodils in the midst of a field is often the only evidence of a long-forgotten homestead.  Sometimes, there’s a lone old oak tree beside it, that someone couldn’t quite bear to cut down. 

The farmer has probably cursed those daffodil bulbs and their tenacious capacity for growing against all odds, for spreading when split in two.  He’s probably tired of farming around the tree.  But to me, they represent miracles and memories.

So I keep planting miracles around our little farmhouse, knowing someday the memories surrounding each will be precious.