Sierra V. Fedorko

I felt the tears well behind my eyes walking up to the four buttercup blooms. I first noticed the telltale yellow burst of a flower while in the middle of an ordinary task as I passed by our bedroom window.

Soon after I would sit in the cool grass, hear the frogs and the birds, a Mourning Dove in the distance (my favorite birdsong), and capture the unabashed and simple beauty of the buttercup (my favorite wildflower on principle).

The tears which pressed behind my eyes were brought on by beauty, by remembrance, by the gifts of God and His deep encouragement and ministering to the soul.

is winter cold and dreary,
deep and dark
just so the tiny beautiful things
are instead
seen
from the window, in the distance,
come upon, savored, known
sweet?

probably not.

winter matters in more ways
than one,
but then I’m almost convinced
winter only exists
for the first warm buttercup
I see,
the one at my feet,
the one I’d care nothing of
if winter had never been
so cold and dreary,
so deep and
dark,
if the seasons of pain and grief
hadn’t forced my eyes
down
to see anything, anything
good, (There was.)
to notice whatever was lovely
and right. (I saw.)

now I wade in the pools of cool
grass
in soft sun
with birdsong, and
spring
in my soul,
spring
dotting the February air,
the goodness of God at my feet,
again.

It seems winter
has spent a lifetime painting
hope
in the best light.

and the God of winter,
the Lord of my life, keeps
turning the seasons like the
heart
of my gaze
to see past the
brokenness
to the strength of His
hand
in a thin-stemmed
buttercup
blooming
reminding me over
again
how warm I was,
would be,
had been
in the biting, forlorn
cold.

-S.V.F., Warm I Was

Everything was just right in this moment. The light was perfect, the sun just so. That hillside dotted by four buttercups and bathed in a gentle crescendo of light and warmth and song was beauty meant for my enjoyment in that private moment, on that secluded hillside.

It was a painting and a poem, art meant for me.

And I saw it.

Held it between my gaze. Felt the warmth of the canvas I’d walked into. Right there past my window and at my fingertips, I see that God sees me. I know He is this personal toward His children. The lilies of the field and the sparrows remind me it is so. The four buttercups outside my bedroom window dare me to believe it.

And I do.