The Nebraska Statewide Arboretum hosts this fundraising event every year, and this year Renae Morehead and I had the privilege of photographing it. Plants, photography and Renae on a Friday night? I daresay it doesn’t get better than that. Extra kudos go out to Christina Hoyt who spearheaded the event! Well done, friend! Thanks for inviting us to take part in it.

I took Shiloh, our 6 year old Coton de Tulear, to visit his veterinarian the other day. Since we’ve been fostering, I haven’t been on top of many smallish matters of life, so Shiloh was a bit late on his vaccinations. On the phone the receptionist told me to bring in a stool sample. O-kay. All day long I stayed glued to the bathroom activities of the dog—super fun, let me tell you—and finally at dusk his little dog body hunched in that familiar pose. I ran for a plastic baggy and when I came back? He was eagerly waiting at the door to be let in.

Have you ever seen a person act oddly in their yard or out on the street? You wonder what in the world they could be doing? Well, that was me that evening. Not only was the sun well on its way past the horizon but the yard was covered in small patches of snow, thus turning this experience into a real life Where’s Waldo with dog poop. I like to imagine the neighbors saying, “Honey, come see this! What in the world do you think she’s doing??” Because there I was, iPhone held high like a torch shining down on the ground with its capable flashlight app, making circles in the yard. I couldn’t have had more intensity in my pursuit if I had dropped my engagement ring. And you know what? I was successful. I WON! I won the, um, stool sample award? Yeah. Who’s keeping tabs on my awesomeness?

So yesterday was another moment like this one, except more gratifying because there was an end product and less humiliating because it didn’t involve poop. As many of you know I frequently collaborate with Maralee Bradley on columns both for her blog and for Her View from Home. Sometimes Maralee will come to me with a specific need, but more often it involves general ideas and I get to figure out what it is we’re looking for in terms of art. (My favorite example of this was when Maralee and I both received new foster children in a matter of days. She literally ran into my house and mumbled something like, “Now Hulk likes them, now Hulk doesn’t” and that was it. Somehow we made it work and it was one of my favorite shoots because I got to play with toys like a kid.)

I knew Maralee was looking for images of plants pushing their way through snow as they come up in the spring. After searching my archives and coming up with nothing, I went exploring. In the snow. And the wind. In the snowy wind. Snow rarely ever delicately floats to the ground in Nebraska; it usually comes down in a sideways driving-rain kind of maneuver, only it was driving frozen bits flying into my eyeballs. So again, were the neighbors wondering what in the world was going on with Mrs. Tredway yesterday? Kneeling on a plastic Trader Joe’s tote bag, I dug through the dirt and dried hosta leaves and found green gold. There it was: Spring making its way through Winter. Spring! It’s coming. Doesn’t matter that we were having a mini-blizzard on the last day of February or that snow is frozen in large patches on the sunken part of our front yard. Doesn’t matter that we’re still donning hats and mittens to run errands or that my snow boots are encrusted in salt from so many days of winter wear. Spring is coming.

I should’ve gotten on my hands and knees earlier. No matter what the neighbors might say.

Nurturing in the Tredway household comes in all forms, including this sprouting carrot. Jeremy saved it and Liv has great plans for planting. Spring, come soon! We long to see more growing things.

My big brother very sweetly bought me a card and a little pot of tulips for Mother’s Day. On Sunday the buds were so tightly closed that I couldn’t tell what color they’d be, but they opened up charmingly by my kitchen window within a few days. (Thank you, Adam! This gift is making me very happy.)

I’m ridiculously in awe of spring this year. Or is it every year, I can’t tell. Jeremy is frequently subjected to my exclamations of appreciation for all the GREEN. One tree out front appears much larger and more shade-providing than last year and I can’t get enough of the way sunlight filters through its branches all day long, casting flickering shadows on my living room carpet while I work in the next room. And there’s another tree in the back yard whose green branches fill up my view as I walk into the kitchen. I don’t feel like I live on the plains this spring. With a little imagination I live in the rolling hills of California or Georgia and my acreage—just dreaming here—is covered with trees. Livia is even getting in on the gushing action. We drive through an area called Wilderness Park frequently and I often draw her attention to the way the trees are changing and filling out as the seasons change. The last time we drove this path I was distracted by texting and from the backseat I hear a voice that perfectly echoed my own thoughts. If nothing else I hope I’ve given her an eye that utterly delights in God’s handiwork.

Thank you, God, for warm weather once more and a world that is changing in color all around us. Thank you that I now have something new to photograph. Thank you for not leaving us in the cold deadness of winter. Thank you for spring and the anticipation of summer. Thank you that school is almost out and the pace of our days will change. Thank you for rest. Thank you for this season of renewal. Thank you for your constancy and goodness and love, for every good and perfect gift comes from you.

It occurred to me, halfway into my mowing activities, that this situation was perfect for an iPod and some really loud music. Alas, it was me, the roaring lawnmower, a summer breeze and my thoughts. I started off cursing the suburbs where people treat lawn care like it’s the Best Hobby Ever or maybe a contest that needs winning. We’ve gone from redeeming an old lawn that a curmudgeonly owner completely wrecked with RV motor oil to being what we lovingly refer to as The Squatleys—you know, that family on your block that never mows their lawn and leaves crap out all the time.

I suppose now is as good a time as any to issue a public apology. To my husband. Here goes:

Jeremy Tredway, I apologize for ever looking seriously at acreages and imagining we’d move into one. I know, more than once, you asked who would mow the acres of property and I, more than once, spritely suggested YOU. I was foolish. Forgive me.

We have a nice-sized lawn now, but it is in no way incredibly large. And it’s certainly not an acreage. We back up to a commons and a city bike path—and apparently we and our neighbors mow part of the commons ourself. Isn’t that sweet? It seems like a nice thing to do until you get a little hot and have green grass clippings stuck between your toes and sweat is starting to drip in some very uncomfortable places. As I started to judge my suburban neighbors a little less and started to get a bit cranky and still was listening to the loud mower engine and no lively tunes, I asked myself, what in the world was my problem? Is this job too hard? No. I am too tired to do it? No. Is it the endless lines of back and forth without any creative loops around garden patches to break up the monotony? Yes. Problem solved. Apparently lawn-mowing is not my calling.

But I love being outside. I love the hot sun on my shoulders and the intimacy that comes with spending time in every nook and cranny of my yard. Dreams for future gardens start to emerge. Plans to mess up this beautiful but park-like space take root. I get excited for the point when we’ll make our mark in the suburbs. So hooray for the monotony of mowing and yay for the chance to let thoughts swirl away from the lure of digital clutter. I have strong (enough) arms for pushing a lawnmower and healthy legs and feet for walking. We are owners of a small piece of land and we live in a beautiful part of a lovely city. This is enough for today.

I can celebrate life, even while wiping sweat from my brow. Or perhaps, especially while wiping sweat from my brow.

The day begins in a hectic fashion, more in my heart than anywhere else. Though I readily admit that pushing a child into the school day—I said put your pants on!—can be a lesson in patience. I feel the stress of the coming move acutely and keep trying to remember that God doesn’t want me to worry. Why do I forget that so easily? It’s all in his hands. Remember, remember, remember.

I grab my camera and greet the sunlit roses, orange with blushes of pink. Some are bright in the morning light, others tucked back deep in shadow. The clematis likes to use them as a trellis. After attempting to train them elsewhere, I let the flowers intermingle and make friends. A few minutes of fresh air, practicing my craft gives me years of life. The stress begins to dissipate and I recall who I am and, more importantly, Who has created me.

Today is a day for beauty, a day for praise. There’s nothing to fear. And a lot to remember.