The other morning, I stepped outside to get the mail and noticed something bright against the brick. The daffodils were back, bright yellow and standing tall, like they were announcing that winter had finally let go. Every year they show up around the same time, and every year I have the same reaction. I pause and think, there they are again. It reminds me that I apparently have flowers I did not plant, which feels like a small win for someone whose gardening strategy has mostly been to stay out of the way. 

Before we ever moved in, someone planted bulbs that would sit through the cold, the dark, and the waiting, only to show up later right on time. That means every spring, I get to enjoy the fruits of somebody else’s labor. For weeks before that moment, though, it looks like nothing is happening. Trees are bare, the grass is a dull yellowish-brown, and everything feels still. If you didn’t know better, you might assume nothing is changing at all. 

Life has seasons like that. Plans don’t unfold the way you expected; relationships shift, work feels heavier, and a hard season lasts longer than you thought it would. You keep moving forward but quietly wonder if anything is changing. And right now, it’s not just the quiet seasons people are carrying. It’s real-life pressure, the cost of things going up, trying to take care of your family, watching the world shift, and facing decisions or conversations that are not fully clear yet. 

That kind of uncertainty makes waiting feel heavier. You’re not where you used to be, but you’re not fully where you’re going either. You’re somewhere in between, trying to keep going while you wait and trying to prepare for what comes next. April sits right in the middle of that tension. It starts light, but moves toward something deeper, and Easter reminds us that some of the most meaningful changes in life begin when it looks like nothing is happening at all. 

That’s what the daffodils remind me of. Growth can be happening long before we recognize it, and something can be developing beneath the surface while everything above ground looks unchanged. Timing isn’t ours to control, and waiting is not the same asnothing happening. 

Hope often returns quietly. It shows up in a conversation that lifts your spirit, an unexpected opportunity, or a moment when something feels just a little lighter. It rarely arrives all at once, and it often comes in ways that are easy to miss if you’re not paying attention. Faith reminds us that God often works beneath the surface long before we see it, and Scripture says God is doing a new thing even when we don’t yet perceive it. 

So maybe the step this week is not to force change or rush ahead, but to notice what is already beginning to grow. Pay attention to the small shifts and the quiet encouragement, and simply say, God, help me see what you are already doing. Hope often returns the same way daffodils do, quiet at first, but strong enough to remind you that even when you couldn’t see it, something was growing all along.

At the Intersection,

Dr. Quincy Brown