For a Friend Lying in Intensive Care Waiting for Her White Blood Cells to Rejuvenate After a Bone Marrow Transplant (by Barbara Crooker)

The jonquils. They come back. They split the earth with
their green swords, bearing cups of light.
The forsythia comes back, spraying its thin whips with
blossom, one loud yellow shout.
The robins. They come back. They pull the sun on the
silver thread of their song.
The irises come back. They dance in the soft air in silken
gowns of midnight blue.
The lilacs come back. They trail their perfume like a scarf
of violet chiffon.
And the leaves come back, on every tree and bush, millions
and millions of small green hands applauding your return.

It may be a prayer for the white cells to come back.
For hope to come back.
For him or her to come back.
For the past to come back.
For the feelings of happiness to come back.
For the innocence to come back.
For the peace to come back.
For the good old days to come back.
For those we loved and have lost, to come back.
For health to come back.
A prayer of hope as we look at and smell and see the flowers, the lilacs, spring in full bloom. Hope that there might be a new beginning for us, no matter what it is.
Hope that whatever force or love makes all creation come back in the spring, that it might hold out hope for what we long for the most.
Spring doesn’t come all at once, but slowly.
Perhaps hope is like that as well.
All of a sudden we’re holding lilacs in our hands
Enjoying the sweet fragrance
And feeling in our hearts again, hope.

Change me O God, help me to hope again and to trust.

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