To every thing there is a season;
A time to every purpose under the heaven
A time to be born and a time to die;
A time to plant and a time to pluck up that which has been planted
A time to kill and a time to heal;
A time to break down and a time to build up
A time to weep and a time to laugh;
A time to mourn and a time to dance
A time to rend and a time to sew;
A time to keep silence and a time to speak
A time to love and a time to hate;
A time of war and a time of peace
Ecclesiastes 3:1-8
Missouri eases into spring with much debate and trepidation the same way that it faces any kind of change. The Bradford Pears lining streets and scattered throughout the backyards don’t even bloom at the same time, but rather fall back and await a few stalwart sentries to cry the alert that all is well for dainty white flowers, huddling snowballs.
Unlike The Dogwood, The Cherries and The Hawthornes fill out quickly, in time with the frost-bitten tubers, their blooms diminished quickly by the early spring winds. The Dogwood, however, takes her time, tight buds slowly breaking to expose the thick satiny, pink and green bracts that comfort the tiny blooming flower cluster inside. Months will pass before she reveals her true and final beauty.
Though many beautiful things grow in my yard, they rarely make it to the kitchen table or the window sill. The beautiful offerings that come to me sealed with a kiss are not found in garden shops or seed catalogs, not cultivated and nurtured or fertilized and manipulated by the pluses and minuses of soil ph. These greed goddess blessings are not tepid about spring or cautious about life. They are not pretentious or perfumed and celebrated.
They are weeds. To some. But to me, they are the first real signs of Spring, of Mother Nature’s real glory. They endure. They multiply. They attract children like coneflower attracts bumble bees. They are given to me, readily, by small dirty hands that have been poking the dirt for earthworms and flipping garden stones in search of centipedes. I am humbled in their presence, the truest sign of the faithful graceful love of a child.
