Don't Miss the Dogwood

                                   by Jeanie Mercer

Spring was performing before our eyes on the way to church the other day, and we got in on the first act.

  

It hadn't been long since emaciated limbs waited stiffly in the cold to flesh out with foliage, and weeping willows stood hoping for some sunshine to lighten their mood.

  

When one winter hiccup had sprinkled the town with snow, we couldn't take it seriously. We'd already noticed the pre-pubescent swellings on stems and branches that promised to stop winter in its tracks.

  

Now old brown leaves, retired to the gutters, glanced up with apathetic envy at their perky green replacements on the trees.

Hills of bluebonnets stood poised on the edge of April, ready to carpet the roadsides with color.

Since the last time we drove by, flowers in passing yards had burst out like exploding kaleidoscopes against a backdrop of every shade of green. The spectacular colors dazzled us more than a tour of neighborhood Christmas lights.

We saw purple and orange pansies. White snowball bushes and red-tipped photinias. Cascades of orchid wisteria and yellow forsythia, and various hues of pink on flora we couldn't name.

    

All outdoors sparkled with new riches: sapphire skies, emerald grass, golden daffodils.

As we entered the church door, we were met with an item of good gossip from one of our members:

"The little dogwood over on MacArthur Street is blooming this morning." (This is the nature of gossip in our little church.) "You must alter your route going home and drive by to see it. Bill and I kept up with this tree for nearly twenty years, from the time it was a sapling."

Bill, a big Highway Patrol captain who wore boots and western clothes, was her husband who had died less than a year ago, since he last saw the dogwood bloom. We've all missed him - especially his prayers, which never failed to acknowledge spring.

No wonder springtime always gets some press in the prayers of our small church. It dances in the air. Electrifies. Recharges the spirits of our little flock, many of whom are beset with the pains and restrictions and griefs of age.

Suddenly the hillsides "rejoice greatly and shout for joy," and while heaven and earth declare God's fascinating glory with all these colored pictures, we gladly join them.

We did take the long way home and let our eyes drink it all in, an activity I recommend.

  

Before spring loses its youthful flamboyance and settles into summer, drive by, as we did, and check out the little dogwood while it blooms. Get an eyeful of the bluebonnets while they're still blue.

Admire the frilly lace dresses on the old trees before they turn matronly again. Catch the holly berries kissing the pear blossoms as Christmas marries Easter.

See the bridal wreath and baby's breath, blooming together in sweet prophecy, and let yourself be drawn like the bees to their fragrance.

Like our friend at church, spread the good gossip of the first dogwood blossoms.

We got the message. Spring, like youth, is temporary. Though seedtime and harvest will recur as long as the earth shall last, each new spring is fleeting and therefore especially precious. It's worth a closer look.

Jeanie Mercer is a member of the Board of Contributors, Central Texans who write columns regularly for the Waco Tribune-Herald. She interprets for the deaf at Brookview Chuch of Christ and is an author.