It's raining; I can hear the soft sound of it outside the windows.
I love March. When I lived in New England, March was the month when spring was a very private and personal affair. It had to be looked for; a person almost had to believe in it, in order to see it.
Down here in the South, spring goes public in March. In fact, spring has been announcing itself all last month- all through February, if you can believe it. Already, there are purple and yellow blossoms to be seen in the park.
Keith has mowed the back yard already; we're researching patio furniture sets on line and dreaming about the pool. He was unable to resist throwing a pool toy into the cart the last time we went shopping.
I've been thinking about a nursery these days. It's a soft thought, a tendril of hope, like the scent of lilacs that comes drifting through the open windows in late spring.
It's possible that I might need a nursery, might decorate and stock one- with bits of soft clothing, like tiny, striped socks, little stretchy caps and lots and lots of ridiculously small diapers.
Who knows how long before it would be used. There's no telling. Who knows who might choose us as adoptive parents, or why. But it's out there, a possibility.
Whatever happens, I trust the One who keeps and carries me. He is all that I am to receive, and my cup, as David wrote so well.