03/11/2026
I rode through the countryside not far from where our old farm was this past week. Along the roadside, a patch of daffodils was blooming. I have noticed them every spring for years and always wondered who planted them.
Was there once a home here? Who lived, loved, and worked this piece of ground?
Someone one day, shovel in hand, took time to plant these bulbs in the barrenness of fall so that yellow blooms would dance months later and signal spring. I love that hope, that forethought, the taking time today to believe in beauty in the future.
The house, if there was one, is long gone. The people who planted those bulbs are likely gone too. Yet every spring the daffodils return, bright and faithful.
We pass by and simply enjoy the surprise of them, never knowing the story behind their planting. Still, the flowers tell it quietly—reminding us that even when people and places fade, something about them remains.
What are beauty are you and I cultivating that will remain? The gift of simple daffodils in spring is encouraging. I think I will plant some this fall... A little gift for travelers years and years from now.
