My Breck’s bulb catalog arrived in the mail on Thursday. As I walked up the driveway thumbing through the pages of daffodils, tulips, peonies, hyacinths, and crocuses I had to smile at myself. In the midst of autumn adoration my mind’s chin is suddenly turned in the opposite direction, to springtime.

The catalog came with a very nice coupon, which means I can get 50 bulbs free. I’ve never planted bulbs and have been looking forward to admiring tulips gushing from the ground rather than in a vase on my kitchen table.

“I’m not made for winter,” Aidan lamented as we walked to school a few mornings ago. She was feeling chilled and tired and so was I. There must be a purpose behind the sensory overload that is autumn. The beauty of the season is so vibrant it distracts from the snap of an icy slice of errant wind from the north.

I dropped the kids at school and walked home with my little guys. By the time we arrived at our door my cheeks felt pinched, smooth, and a quick glance in the mirror confirmed a rosiness that only comes from being outside in the cool. The vibrancy of the foilage will drain away with the weeks, but the color will increase in our faces as our world turns frosty. The joy of winter is in people, not flowers, in the evergreen of Christmas trees, not in the blades of grass.

The joy of winter is the promise of my 50 bulbs, now on their way from Holland, snug in the ground until God nods.

I removed a post (and the disclaimer post that went along with it) because not everyone has an iron stomach. Like me. Not much sickens me, aside from man’s inhumanity to man. So it isn’t your imagination—the gross post is gone, but if you would like to read it, use the contact form and I will email it to you. I am rather fond of it, actually. I had fun writing it.