March in the Finger Lakes is a practiced trickster—an old friend who knocks at the door with one hand while hiding snow behind her back with the other. By now, I’ve learned not to trust her entirely, yet each year I fall for her charms all over again.

A few days ago, the world blazed with golden sunlight, so radiant it seemed to melt the stubborn gray crusts of snow by sight alone. I watched those mounds dissolve into molten silver, slipping into rivulets that crept—quiet as grace—down the hillside and into the ditch beside the drive. The air softened too, loosening winter’s grip. It coaxed my coat from my shoulders, urged me to linger a little longer, and invited me to breathe in the damp, rich scent of earth waking from its long sleep.

That kind of day ignites a particular excitement. My mind begins cataloging the small early-spring chores: cutting back the ferns to free their furled fronds, raking the leaves winter herded against the garage, spreading fresh mulch where the soil shows through like a bare knee, hauling out the cages and posts that will steady seedlings still months away. I picture myself pressing last year’s saved seeds into egg cartons on the porch, the cartons wobbling in the sunlight like small boats waiting for launch.

The yard joins the commotion. Sparrows—dozens of them—offer their cheerful commentary. Squirrels spiral up the shagbark maples, tails flicking like punctuation marks. And just when I think the world cannot hold any more delight, there they are: the snowdrops.

Always first to arrive, early to the spring party, those renegades have escaped the tidy patch near the chimney and scattered themselves across the bench garden, mingling with the peonies my grandmother planted sixty years ago. I like to imagine her smiling at their audacity.

But yesterday—March being March—the temperature plunged again. Snow returned in a thin, stubborn veil, and I found myself indoors, hands wrapped around a warm mug, watching from the window. Winter reclaimed the fields for the day. My coat returned to its hook. My optimism paused—but did not falter.

I simply waited.

There is a quiet lesson in this, one that mirrors the slow, surprising work of grace in our spiritual walk. Growth rarely announces itself with fanfare. More often it arrives like those rivulets slipping unnoticed through the grass, like seeds swelling quietly in their cartons, like snowdrops spreading themselves year by year. Faith matures in the small, unseen thawings of the heart.

Some days the warmth of God’s presence draws us outside—eager and alive. Other days ask us to stand at the window, holding our questions and our coffee, trusting the season will turn again.

March reminds me that patience is not passive. It is attentive. Expectant. Willing to stand in the in-between spaces with hope.

So here I am—waiting for the earth to loosen, for the sun to linger a little longer across the hills, for the first true day of spring to step forward without retreat. And I would love for you to wait here with me—watching for what comes next, trusting together that the thaw is already on its way.