Sometimes I don’t feel it, that bud. When my college friend Sarah died of a brain aneurysm (warmhearted, strong-willed Sarah!), the shock of it cracked my faith, cut it to a cold, hard stump. I strive for the blossom, but for me, faith is the green bud, vulnerable yet full of possibility: a meaningful conversation in the Writing Center, a spontaneous hug from my teens, an apology to a friend, speaking up as Sarah did. It’s our stumbling along, moving in the right direction that—as the full passage suggests—might lead to great things, like transcending fear so that we no longer judge people by appearance. Can you imagine that blossom, that tree? Faith, for me, sometimes hides in the stump. But underneath the frozen ground, within the tangled roots, there is indeed a bud, waiting to shoot up. And that bud will change things.