It was an autumn morning shortly after my husband and I moved into our first house. Children were upstairs unpacking , and I was looking out of the window at my father moving around mysteriously on the front lawn. My parents lived nearby ,and Dad had visited us several times already. "What are you doing out there?" I called to him .He looked up, smiling. "I'm making you a surprise." Knowing my father, I thought it could be just about anything. A self-employed jobber, he was always building things out of odds and ends. When we were kids, he always created something surprising for us. Today, however, Dad would say no more, and caught ups in the busyness of our new life, I eventually forgot about his surprise. Until one gloomy day the following March when I glanced out of the window. Any yet... I saw a dot of blue across the yard. I headed outside for a closer look. They were crocuses  , throughout the front lawn. Lavender, blue, yellow and my favorite pink ---- little faces moved up and down in the cold wind. Dad! I smiled, remembering the things he had secretly planted last autumn. He knew how the darkness and dullness of winter always got me down. What could have been more perfectly timely to my needs? My father's crocuses bloomed each spring for the next four or five seasons, bringing the same assurance every time they arrived: hard times was almost over. Hold on, keep going, light is coming soon. Then a spring came with only half the usual blooms. The next spring there were none. I missed the crocuses. I would ask Dad to come over and plant new bulbs. But I never did. He died suddenly one October day. My family was in deep sorrow, leaning on our faith. I missed him terribly. Four years passed, and on a dismal spring afternoon I was driving back when I found myself feeling depressed. "You've got the winter depression again and you get them every year." I told myself. It was Dad's birthday, and I found myself thinking about him. This was not unusual --- my family often talked about him, remembering how he lived his faith. Once I saw him give his coat to a homeless man. Suddenly I slowed as I turned into our driveway. I stopped and stared at the lawn. And there on the muddy grass and small gray piles of melting snow, bravely waving in the wind, was one pink crocus. How could a flower bloom from a bulb more than 18 years old, one that had not blossomed in over a decade? But there was the crocus. Tears filled my eyes as I realized its significance. Hold on, keep going, light is coming soon. The pink crocus bloomed for only a day. But it built my faith for a lifetime. The writer's father should be best described as  _  .
a full-time gardener with skillful hands a part-time jobber who loved flowers a kind-hearted man who lived with faith an ordinary man with doubts in his life
Question: It was an autumn morning shortly after my husband and I moved into our first house. Children were upstairs unpacking , and I was looking out of the window at my father moving around mysteriously on the front lawn. My parents lived nearby ,and Dad had visited us several times already. "What are you doing out there?" I called to him .He looked up, smiling. "I'm making you a surprise." Knowing my father, I thought it could be just about anything. A self-employed jobber, he was always building things out of odds and ends. When we were kids, he always created something surprising for us. Today, however, Dad would say no more, and caught ups in the busyness of our new life, I eventually forgot about his surprise. Until one gloomy day the following March when I glanced out of the window. Any yet... I saw a dot of blue across the yard. I headed outside for a closer look. They were crocuses  , throughout the front lawn. Lavender, blue, yellow and my favorite pink ---- little faces moved up and down in the cold wind. Dad! I smiled, remembering the things he had secretly planted last autumn. He knew how the darkness and dullness of winter always got me down. What could have been more perfectly timely to my needs? My father's crocuses bloomed each spring for the next four or five seasons, bringing the same assurance every time they arrived: hard times was almost over. Hold on, keep going, light is coming soon. Then a spring came with only half the usual blooms. The next spring there were none. I missed the crocuses. I would ask Dad to come over and plant new bulbs. But I never did. He died suddenly one October day. My family was in deep sorrow, leaning on our faith. I missed him terribly. Four years passed, and on a dismal spring afternoon I was driving back when I found myself feeling depressed. "You've got the winter depression again and you get them every year." I told myself. It was Dad's birthday, and I found myself thinking about him. This was not unusual --- my family often talked about him, remembering how he lived his faith. Once I saw him give his coat to a homeless man. Suddenly I slowed as I turned into our driveway. I stopped and stared at the lawn. And there on the muddy grass and small gray piles of melting snow, bravely waving in the wind, was one pink crocus. How could a flower bloom from a bulb more than 18 years old, one that had not blossomed in over a decade? But there was the crocus. Tears filled my eyes as I realized its significance. Hold on, keep going, light is coming soon. The pink crocus bloomed for only a day. But it built my faith for a lifetime. The writer's father should be best described as  _  .
A. a full-time gardener with skillful hands
B. a part-time jobber who loved flowers
C. a kind-hearted man who lived with faith
D. an ordinary man with doubts in his life
Answer: