The daffodils survived. Some were broken, these I gathered to adorn our house. Some are bent, their lovely heads drawing near the ground. Others stand tall, returning to glory and joy. Such is the work of a storm. The broken is redeemed to offer beauty; the wind and the weight of the storm causes heads to bow in humility, and truth is strengthened. Storms are not death. In the hand of God they are life.
This is very beautiful and was the perfect word for my weary heart.
Praying for you. R