My most favorite season of the year is upon us.  Spring symbolizes hope to me.  The drab gray sky that deprived me of the sun’s radiant glow for so many days is now cloaked in azure.  The frigid blasts that kept me prisoner inside a cave of boredom have drifted away leaving occasional gusts of floral bouquets.

The Bradford pears and tulip trees burst with color as the maples and red buds challenge them in a sprint to display their finest apparel.  The robins and cardinals sing merrily as they search for worms to consume.  Crocus and daffodils that had inched their way up through the thawing ground add splashes all around.

There have been enough days into my retirement that such simple images consume my thoughts as I stroll leisurely through the neighborhood.  Pleasant, unrestricted, simple thoughts accompany me under a cloudless sky, warmed by the seventy-something degree temperatures.  Life is good.  I am blessed.

It is only after I return to my house and settle comfortably at my desk, with my laptop and cup of java, and begin to think about my next blog, that the insignificance of my being becomes as clear as the chirp of a nearby bird. 

A dear friend posts a message from her cell phone as she waits in the intensive care unit of a local hospital while her husband balances precariously between life and death, awaiting a new liver.  My heart aches to wave a wand and make things right, yet I have no control, no impact upon the outcome, except to pray.

Another friend directs me to his son’s blog posted from Afghanistan.  A US soldier kills villagers for no apparent reason, escalating the tensions in an already volatile location.  Still fresh on the front burner is the unfortunate burning of Qurans by our country.  No hint of spring surfaced in the words he wrote.  Yet, there was a sign of hope in his son’s stories.  Most significant to me, International Woman’s Day was celebrated in Kandahar.  The concept of this event taking place in a country unaccustomed to affording women rights, gives hope that the influences our country has made will continue to grow like the tulips that thrive during a early spring snow fall.

Like a snow globe shaken vigorously, the perspective of my intentions is clouded by the unsettling emails.  How insignificant my attempt to touch a world that yearns for so much more than I have to offer.  Doubts about my blog stir in my mind as the messages settle into my thoughts.  I hear an old familiar voice call out “Who do you think you are?  You are nobody.  You are nothing.”

Fortunately, I have learned to dispel the words once embedded within me.  It has taken many years to erase the recordings left by others. 

Every person has worth; every person has the opportunity to make a difference.  I may not be able to save a life or defend our country on foreign ground.  I admire and appreciate those who are called to do that.  Each of us has been given a gift.  What we choose to do with it is what counts.  For me, I write; I write from my heart.  It is my responsibility to share it, not keep it to myself.  My hope is that something I publish inspires another person who needs encouragement. 

My words are simple.  Spring is my favorite season of the year because it represents hope.  What does it mean to you?  I’d love to hear about it.