Tiny, velvet, upside down purple bells carpeted the ground beneath the trees. My little sister immediately wanted to pick some to take to my mother.”No,” I said, “Let’s bring mother here. Let’s surprise her with the first spring flowers!”

After much cajoling, my mother agreed. She pulled on her ratty old winter car coat and her black rubber boots and off we went. It wasn’t easy trying to hurry through the mud in the alfalfa field, but soon we were in the meadow and approaching Birch Hill. When my mother saw the flowers, she just stopped and stared, then let out an awestruck “oohh.”

She began to walk very carefully beneath the trees looking at the tiny flowers. We followed silently in her footsteps. It felt like we were in church. “What are they, Mama?” Cass asked in a near whisper. “They’re crocuses,” my mother answered softly, “tough little flowers that will bloom even in the snow-nature’s spring miracle.”

It was then I noticed tears glistening on my mother’s cheeks. “Are you OK, Mama?” I asked a little worried. “Yes, honey,” she answered , “I’m just so very happy you shared this special surprise with me.” From that point on, a pilgrimage to find the crocuses became a yearly rite of spring for every member of our family. Sometimes we all went together, sometimes my mother went alone or I did, especially during moody adolescence, but each year we eagerly awaited that first miracle of the season. — Beliefnet.com (Concluded)