The dogwood revisited

Just before Phoebe died a new nurse was hired.  I spent a day with her showing her the way it worked in this unique nursing position.  It was funny to me to be 'training' her when I was a brand new nurse with just a few months on my license, while she had been practicing for years, a wealth of experience under her belt.  I enjoyed my time with her.  And then Phoebe died.  Everyone was incredibly kind and sensitive ...and have remained so.  One blessing was that my friendship with this 'new' nurse continued, mostly just in the context of our work space, but it is a pleasure to share time with her.  She considers me a bit of a 'hippie', a 'flower child' which always makes me laugh because it is so far from who I am ...but that's how she sees me!  I keep telling her to call my kids to set her straight.
I tend to see connections among people and its no different with her.  She lives in my home town in a neighborhood I remember being built.  Her house rests among the woods we walked through, the deep dark woods, with trails and paths leading to the Lutheran Church which would bring us closer to the bowling alley and convenience store.  She lives in my old parish where I made my First Communion, Confirmation and where we were married, and the place of my parents' funerals. I tell her about town history, some of the 'political players' I used to ride the bus with.  I know who they married and who they dated before that.  We laugh at this senseless information and exchange ...but its a sharing of life in simple ways.  Anyway, the purpose of writing about this here is a prompting from a gift she gave to me this Christmas.  It's a daily devotional journal, along with a guide to read the bible in a year ...which I've wanted to do for quite some time.  It started today, so when I found a quiet moment I tucked away with a pen, to make notes on my first day.  When I opened the gift I quickly tucked it into a "safe place" so I would have it at the ready.  But of course, I couldn't remember where that 'safe place' was and searched high and low, quietly accusing this one and that one of throwing it away in a heap of wrapping paper and bows.  I did find it, in my backpack, truly a 'safe place.'  The cover is a soft leather and as I looked at the cover I noticed a spray of flowers at the top ...they are dogwood blossoms.  If you remember reading here the story of the dogwood, you'll know they hold great meaning for me ...and for me and Phoebe.  Could be coincidence, or more likely one more weaving of lives.  It felt like a hug from this woman ...and from Phoebe too.  One way it seems Phoebe has made her way in my life from her new life is in navigating and discerning friendships, relationships ...guiding me to nurture and embrace ones that are healthy and balanced, rightly ordered.
The story of the dogwood is probably my favorite from this previous year's writing.  It bridges generations in my family and touches upon one of the things I loved about my father growing up.  He taught us so much about trees and flowers, gardens and worms. Our dogwood tree was central in our lives, rooting us in photographs as each of us prepared to receive the Eucharist for the first time in my old parish.  It just always was.  And the timeliness of its bloom in my own backyard one morning with Phoebe will always remain with me. Finally, at her school, on her birthday, two dogwoods were planted in her memory.  Yes, the dogwood has a place in my life.  Quiet and humble, but so steady and strong.
So here it is once again, remembering a wonderful blessing from 2011.

Sunday, May 1, 2011

The Dogwood

When I was growing up one of the first flowers of spring were those on the sparse branches of the dogwood tree sitting in our front yard.  It was just off the driveway and no matter what door we went out, it would catch our eye.  I always noticed it, but really thought nothing of it.  It wasn't a very big tree and it was far less lush than the crabapple or the incredible cluster of the cherry tree.  This simple tree inspired no oohs and ahhs, but it never let us down.  It was the first to bloom.  My father was a bit of an amateur arborist, and he taught us quite a bit about the rhythms of nature, when things would bloom, heading off in search of pussy willows beyond our own yard, and cutting branch after branch of whatever was flowering at the time.  But he never cut branches of the dogwood ...the bouquet was always ready for us just outside the door.  Anyone making their First Communion would pose in front of that tree to have a picture taken, so it earned its place in our hearts and our storybooks.  It was steady, sturdy, reliable ....but not nearly as grandstanding as most flowering trees.  I hadn't thought too much of that tree until last year.  In our backyard now is a tree that for the first three springs did nothing.  It annoyed me a bit and I'd decided to cut it down.  There was more I could do with that gardening space, perhaps a lilac, a cherry ....something that made a statement ...delighted me in the spring.  Incredibly, just as I had firmed up my decision to chop down the tree ...it bloomed.  One morning, I noticed buds, tiny ...  Hmm, I thought.  The following morning it had unfurled the tiny buds and there were the flowers of the dogwood.  I was so, so excited and greatly relieved I had not taken the ax to its narrow trunk.  What a gift!  I loved the simplicity of this tree, some branches barely had leaves, never mind blossoms ...and that appealed to me even more, the starkness only augmenting the beautiful simplicity.  Phoebe arrived in the kitchen and joined me at the window.  "See that tree, I was going to cut it down." I said.  "Why?" she asked, not a fan of disturbing nature.  I told her it hadn't bloomed in all the time we had been in this house, and I was totally surprised to see those beautiful flowers now.  She listened to my excitement, knowing how much I love gardens and flowers and flowering trees.  I told her about my childhood dogwood.  She had smiled and laughed, listening to my tales and love of the dogwood.  And that was the end of that, so I thought.  But God and the dogwood had more for me, and God in the richness of His wisdom and His exquisite intimacy waited for the time when I could see the weaving of His grace ...how that day of the dogwood conversation was orchestrated so that I might understand something greater. 
I love finding comments from readers. Most people I know, but sometimes I don't. A few were  left by someone I didn't, but they were very thoughtful.  I did some research and found one of her sites offering beautiful rosaries, handmade with great faith and love. The last one struck me, deep brown beads adorned with Christ on the Crucifix of a dogwood tree.  She shared the story of the dogwood and the Crucifixion of our Savior, a story I had never heard.  I was stunned, re-reading the source, one I favor very much because of its orthodoxy, holding fast to the traditions and truths. It tells of the legend that Christ was put to death on the Cross made from the dogwood tree.  I had never heard this, but when I share this story others have ... I guess I wasn't meant to know until now.

"It is said at the time of the Crucifixion, the dogwood was comparable in size to the oak tree and other monarchs of the forest. Because of its firmness and strength it was selected as the timber for the Cross, but to be put to such a cruel use greatly distressed the tree. Sensing this, the crucified Jesus in His gentle pity for the sorrow and suffering of all said to it: "Because of your sorrow and pity for My sufferings, never again will the dogwood tree grow large enough to be used as a gibbet. Henceforth it will be slender, bent and twisted and its blossoms will be in the form of a cross -- two long and two short petals. In the center of the outer edge of each petal there will be nail prints -- brown with rust and stained with red -- and in the center of the flower will be a crown of thorns, and all who see this will remember." - Fisheaters.com

For me, God is letting me know He understands my cross, my loss, and it is united to His own.  My cross will bloom again, redemption and salvation are found only in the Cross.  Both joy and sorrow coexist in the Cross ...neither stands alone.  Phoebe and I gazed at our dogwood together, my cross just months away from being given to me ...but we held our gaze ...together, and marveled at that flowering tree ...together. I never would have had that specific conversation with my girl had the tree bloomed as it should.  There would be no excitement to share, no past to the present story, and so, no story to tell...but there was and is. For good reason that dogwood, ever faithful, waited to bloom just for me at that moment in time.
One more grace granted, one more abundant showing of His love for this sad mom, missing, so very, very much one extraordinary daughter.  He lets me know too, that she knows ...she really does, and in some way, she is helping me carry the burden.  
I held a branch in my hand today to see the rust stained tips, edged with crimson ...it blooms again.  The Cross of death became the Cross of life ...for all time, for everyone.  The humble dogwood ...

May you be blessed with the grace of Divine Mercy on this great feast day.

Eternal rest grant unto Phoebe and may perpetual light shine upon her.  May she rest in peace. Amen