Green scrubs of shrub hug the alcove just beyond your window, the promise of life that springs up stubbornly, belying even the binding firmament of cement. Sadly, you feel no such crack in your heart. Brittle, its edges nevertheless feel as sturdy as cement. You will not die of a broken heart, yet the quality of hope has been asphyxiated by this same sturdy edge. A gust of wind and the green shrub sends some of its scent through the open frame. “Won’t you come, Lord?” you feel yourself whispering? “Won’t you send that same stubborn newness springing up in me?”