They arrived without fanfare.
Not in a pot. Not from a seed packet. Not part of a manicured bed with careful spacing. Just three crocuses, pushing up from the hard-packed earth beneath a red maple tree.
For over ten years, one had bloomed alone. A fragile sentinel of spring, rising through brittle leaves and lingering frost to say, I’m still here.
But this year, something changed.
There were three.
They stood together, white petals wide like open hands, golden centers glowing with quiet purpose. They didn’t speak, but they didn’t have to. Their very presence was enough. And for those with eyes to see, it was as if the earth had whispered a sacred reminder:
Where two or three are gathered… I am there.
Sometimes, the most profound revelations come not in thunder or brilliance, but in the humble blooming of something small.
This was not a coincidence. It was a message.
From winter’s shadow had come a trinity of light—testifying to perseverance, to growth unseen, and to the deep and abiding presence of God even when the soil looks barren.
May we all learn to notice the unexpected bloom, to draw close to one another in faith, and to remember that what seems small is often the holiest of all.
Because even in darkness, the light still shines.
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