It was a gray day in a gray part of town. The side of town hard with cement, razor wire and broken glass, dressed in dreary even on cloudless, blue days. Reckoning time and seasons by the shrinking and stretching of daylight, the old man looked out the filmy window to check. It’s now light past the six o’clock news. He smiles. It will come soon. The wait will be over. 

            A new day breathed a hint of warmth. Slices of sunlight expose littered alleys. Rumbling engines interrupt a catbird’s playlist. Today might be the day. The blinds are raised. The well-worn chair by the window puffs under his thin frame. He gazes at the two-foot square plot of earth near the curb. His piece of rich, dark land, an Eden in a desert of bland concrete. 

And amid this grim place with rough edges, scattered needles and trash, the watchman is rewarded. The anticipated birth is over. Clusters of bright, yellow trumpet-shaped blooms have been born. His first daffodils, a proclamation of spring, renewal, and hope.

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I came that they may have life, and may have it abundantly.

John 10:10 WEBUS