Every year, for the past 18 years, my husband has given me an Easter lily. What started out as a sweet offering from him to a (then) co-worker has turned into a tradition in our marriage and it means the world to me. It’s better than Valentine’s Day, because it’s not a romantic gesture we share with the world. It’s just ours.

Ironically, the giving of the Easter lily often follows an argument and there have been at least two years that I had to toss a hint that, hey it’s getting really close to Easter Sunday and I don’t have my plant yet. I’m pretty sure last year’s flower showed up late on Saturday evening. But, that’s okay. Life has a way of sneaking up you like that.

I won’t wax poetic on Lent, spring, renewal, marriage and how the lily symbolizes all of them to me…even though I kind of just did. Instead I’ll tell you that it smells really good and it looks pretty on my mantle.

However, I will say that this kind, little expression of affection; this nod to our shared history, makes me dust off my hands and start anew. I am a sucker for tradition. And margaritas, but that’s a different post.

It is a reminder that under this stack of bills, homework, dog fur, dishes, and my husband’s grouchy exterior, there is something sweet, gentle, and dependable. Just when I feel like I’m getting crushed under the weight of it all, a flower springs forth. It’s like hope in a clay pot. If you could sell it, I think it would be illegal.

Despite the snow on the ground (thanks for NOT listening to me Mother Nature) my hope for you is that you find warmth and kindness in something, anything, like I do my lily.

And if you can’t find either one, just make it an excuse to drink more margaritas.

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