Good news:  it’s finally spring! 

Now, I have to admit that at this point, the signs of spring are still somewhat sparse.  The nights are still chilly; after all, in Arkansas, we’re told to expect nighttime temperatures well below freezing all the way until mid-April.  Also, although the buds of future leaves are beginning to swell on tree limbs, there isn’t much green yet.  Even the birds on my feeder are still those of winter—the colorful springtime songbirds haven’t yet begun their migration.  And of course, as any meteorologist will tell me, I still have to wait another three weeks before the “official” vernal equinox.

But even before I can expect to see spring in full bloom—before the calendar believes it possible, before the weather is amenable, before any other springtime harbinger graces the world outside my window—there is one sign that arrives early, a promise of what’s to follow.  Today, I couldn’t prove that spring is coming by the weather, or the birds, or the barren trees.  But the daffodils are blooming.

Daffodils have always been part of our family’s story.  Entwined around my earliest associations with spring is the memory of seeing the ravine in the eastern section of our property become glorified overnight by creamy-colored daffodil blooms, as lovely as woodland angels.  Smaller but no less stunning than these are the jonquils; these delicate plants still bless me each spring with their star-like flowers at the base of a rock or foot of a tree.  My mother planted all of these in their current locations over fifteen years ago, and they continue to reward her, and us, today with lavish blooms. 

My favorite daffodils are the ones in the woods behind our house.  A gift from a dear friend many years ago, the first few bulbs we planted have since spread across the entire ridge.  Each spring, they add a tidal wave of color and beauty to the surroundings.  Every variety—from the large King Alfreds of silky petals to the ruffled intensely-yellow ones to the spectacular double-layered ones in dozens of golden hues—is its own special surprise. 

It’s not only our property that boasts daffodils in the spring.  These flowers have even taken to the woods and wilderness.  I’ve been surprised by them quite frequently during my excursions into the forests and hills near my home.  Sometimes I can understand the reason—two particularly prolific patches, both a little over a mile from my house, mark the now-empty spaces where grand homes once stood.  More often, though, their presence in the forests is a mystery—the last vestige of a story I’ll never know. 

Yes, I love daffodils.  Their petals are beautiful.  Their scent is sweet.  Their promise of spring is inspiring.  But the best thing I love about daffodils?  They remind me to be brave.

You see, daffodils’ glorious position as the first flowers of spring comes with some adverse conditions to surmount.  By blooming now, the daffodils miss out on the benefits the other, later-blooming flowers enjoy—warmer temperatures, more abundant sunshine, gentle spring rains.

And so the daffodils face a struggle.  For one thing, there isn’t as much sunlight right now.  The days are shorter, and our hemisphere of the earth isn’t tilted toward the sun yet, so what light does arrive is weakened.  Also, animals are hungry during this time, scouring for every last vestige of food, and daffodils are an easy target.  And don’t forget that the air can still be bitter; those nighttime freezes and chilling winds are a challenge for young foliage. 

And sometimes conditions are even worse than normal.  A few years ago, I remember seeing the daffodils swaying in the early morning breeze—right after a bitterly hard frost.  Another time, they were a bit droopy—though not crushed—from an unexpected round of sleet.  A friend of mine recently reminisced about an early-spring snowfall in her hometown.  As untimely as the event was, the image she remembers most is that of the daffodils, nothing daunted, peering elegantly from the snowdrifts.  In fact, she even used two of their flowers for the eyes of the snowman she built that day! 

It’s not easy being a daffodil.  Yet when I look at them, I have a feeling that if they could choose, they’d still want to flower now instead of later.  Because you see, the daffodil—rising through snow, ducking under sleet, bracing against whipping wind—is doing something far more glorious than just surviving.  It’s reminding us of a powerful truth—ideal timing does not require ideal conditions.

I’ve struggled with this, and I suspect many of you have as well.  It’s so easy to succumb to the lure of coming perfection—that someday we’ll be braver, stronger, better, and then we’ll undertake the calling God has sown into our hearts.  Reared on catchphrases like “perfect timing” and buzzwords like trained, qualified, and prepared, it’s a short step to begin to see perfection as a qualification for servanthood.   

We have the dream; we’ve received the word from the Lord.  And make no mistake—we’ll do it someday.  Most assuredly.  But right now—well, right now is not a good time.  The kids are having problems.  Our marriage is struggling.  Our health is precarious.  There’s so much on our plate already.  One day—when things are better—then— 

But instead of gently settling us in the midst of perfection conditions, life simply keeps throwing more curveballs.  Before we know it, the opportunity has slipped beyond our grasp.  Conditions are no longer imperfect—they’re now impossible.  And the dream has died.

Don’t get me wrong—preparation is vital.  It’s rarely a good idea to throw ourselves into a half-baked idea or rashly commit to a project that we haven’t considered closely enough.  It’s been my experience, though, that most of us have more than enough preparation, information, and understanding.  We’re just waiting for that “magic moment.”  The problem is this:  that moment may never come.  And elevating our calling to a mystic rite, only available under perfect conditions, robs us of obedience in the nitty-gritty of everyday life. 

You see, when we allow this thinking to cloud our minds, we give in to the pressure of fear.  Fear reminds us that we’re not enough.  It shouts that we’re not ready and it suggests the possibility of failure and it wonders why God would choose us anyway.  Aren’t there people who are much better suited for this—people with picture-perfect lives and impressive spiritual resumes?  Who are we to think God chose us?  Can we truly bring this calling to life? 

With no answers for the questions fear asks, we shuffle the responsibility onto our circumstances.  “When I get a job…”  “When I retire…”  “Once I get this situation under control…”  We set a hypothetical marker of our own maturity, and we determine that then—and only then—will we step out in faith—ironically, at a time when that very faith won’t be stretched so much.

But the secret to stifling fear’s words is to remember a startling truth:  one we often overlook.  Victory isn’t found in stepping into our calling with no mistakes and no regrets.  Victory is found at the moment we launch ourselves—just the way we are, at just the time we are positioned, with just the fears we carry—into the wide-open doorway God has prepared for us.  Victory comes when we, in the words of Suzanne Eller, “do it afraid.”

“Do it afraid.”  Eller explains this impactful slogan in the following way:  “Years ago when I was a young mom, I was afraid…I’d never get it right….One day these words whispered somewhere deep in response:  Do it afraid, Suzie.  Looking back, I believe that God wasn’t asking me to embrace my fears, but to trust that He could somehow use this ill-equipped, work-in-progress woman[.]”

Work-in-progress.  Ill-equipped.  Doesn’t that describe all of us at times?  Haven’t we all identified with struggling to scrape up enough courage to survive the day, let alone strike out on a new venture?  And when we feel ill-equipped, or weak, or vulnerable, or unworthy, the most frightening thing is assuming a responsibility from God.  The good news?  Our obedience isn’t dependent on our emotions.  We can plunge forward in faith—and do it afraid.

For an example of this, just consider Andrew and Peter, receiving a summons from Jesus to become fishers of men.  These men were poor—they lived at a subsistence level.  They were uneducated—fishing was the extent of their skill set.  They were busy—he caught them in the middle of their workday.  Can you imagine the uncertainty they must have experienced?  Yet it didn’t stop them.  They tossed down their nets on the spot and followed Jesus into their future. 

Or what about Paul?  He wrote over 48% of the New Testament, but four of those books were written from prison.  Surely he felt unqualified to write about Christian freedom when he was chained to two bodyguards and denied all privileges.  Yet he was able to calmly pen these words, “I want you to know, brothers, that what has happened to me has really served to advance the gospel” (Philippians 1:12 ESV).  He did it afraid.

Perhaps the most amazing example is Mary.  Nothing could have prepared her for Gabriel’s arrival in her hometown.  The news he brought sent shock waves that destroyed her relationships, her family dynamics, her hopes, her dreams, her reputation, and her conceptions of God.  As a young teenage girl, she was unprepared for motherhood at all—let alone motherhood of such an exceptional baby.  Yet when Gabriel finished his proclamation, she didn’t insist on more details or demand reassurance that all would work out all right.  Instead, she resiliently replied, “Behold, I am the servantof the Lord; let it be to me according to your word” (Luke 1:38b ESV).  She did it afraid. 

You see, sometimes we have to be like the daffodils.  We have to choose to bloom, even in the midst of conditions that seem to spit in the face of all God has promised us.  And if we make that hard choice—if we “do it afraid”—then we might begin to notice something amazing.  We might notice that once we step into the unknown, the fear takes a backseat.  Slowly, it dwindles.  It may never fully disappear, but our hours spent staring in the face of fear are replaced by times of gazing into the eyes of Jesus.  As we press through the layers of pain and fear and uncertainty, we find a healing and a hope and a strength that we could never have experienced any other way.  Yes, the wind may blow.  Yes, the ice is sharp.  But look—we are growing.

I was never reminded of this more strongly than the last time the daffodils bloomed.  In the first dawn of spring 2019, as the daffodils waved outside my window, I was dealing with a chronic illness, frightened about my future, overwhelmed with schoolwork, and preparing to graduate college in two months.  My highest aspiration was to survive—nothing more.  Yet somehow, God had placed this crazy desire in my heart to create a nature blog—a place where His world would be used to spread His glory. 

You see, I’d dreamed of doing such a thing—but I’d always pictured myself doing it later, when I was wiser and braver and more ready to take on this work, when school was over and my health was restored and I was writing fulltime.  To my human side, taking on such a big venture in the midst of my circumstances was near lunacy.  But God’s calling refused to be put on hold.

And in between reading ancient literature selections for school and handling the endless details of graduation, I worked on that dream.  I built a website from scratch without any idea of what I was doing; most of my instruction came from YouTube videos, and the rest was birthed out of agonizing errors.  I hesitantly drafted a first blog, “Wild Goose Chase.”  I told a few friends (not many!) what I was planning and spent a lot of time asking God to help me not fall flat on my face and scrawled pessimistically in my journal, “Let’s hope [this] doesn’t sink instantaneously.”  I was scared, I was small, and I was definitely uncertain. 

But as the daffodils pushed through the ice, so did I.  As they stood there bravely, I sought for courage as well.  And by the time Words from the Wilderness officially launched on April 1, the daffodils were still blooming, but in a world much less hostile.  Spring had caught up with them.  They’d outlasted the turbulence of winter.  And I was smiling.  Yes, I still had struggles, and yes, I was still unsure.  But in the teeth of every obstacle that shoved me back, I’d set my face on my calling, and I’d moved forward.  I hadn’t done it perfectly, but I’d done it—done it afraid.

The daffodils bloomed brightly that spring.  And it’s my prayer that this year, no matter what God has asked you to do and how crazy it seems, they bloom brightly for you as well.

Did you enjoy this post? How are you planning to take the “daffodil dare” and step out in faith this year? I’d love to hear in the comments!