By Elaine Knudtson
If you promised summer when I’d only known winter,
I’d laugh at the thought of leafless twigs transforming from black to green.
I’d ignore the promise of songbirds filling the silence of dark mornings.
I’d doubt that ice and snow could melt into puddles of crocuses, buffalo beans and dandelions;
That day could conquer night,
That the cold earth could become the cradle for new life,
That melancholy could give way to joy.
But then spring came.
Although rain, clouds and cool nights linger,
I begin to believe in miracles and start to listen to foolish promises of glory buried deep within the eternal hope.
I remember summer.
Romans 8: 19-21: The creation waits in eager expectation for the revelation of the sons of God. For the creation was subjected to futility, not by its own will, but because of the One who subjected it, in hope that the creation itself will be set free from its bondage to decay and brought into the glorious freedom of the children of God.…