Azaleas. I grew up with them in Atlanta. Each spring, I would be amazed at the abundance of brilliant blossoms from these towering shrubs. Our backyard was filled with white and pink azalea bushes, many of which were taller than me. We had some lipstick-red azaleas by the front door of our house, but they were smaller. I loved all of those azaleas. When Andy and I moved into our first house in Kansas City, the first thing I did was plant azalea bushes.
They promptly died.
I tried a few more times, but I learned that azaleas really don’t thrive in this Midwestern climate. Last weekend, though, when I was in Arkansas, I found the towering white and pink azaleas of my childhood memories! So now I have a picture of adult me in front of taller-than-me azaleas, to bookend my childhood azalea pictures.
I left those Arkansas azaleas behind with some regret. And then, yesterday, as I was walking into church, I saw lipstick-red azaleas blooming profusely by the front door of the church. They were planted by a gardener who knows about growing things, so they will have a better chance of surviving this Midwestern climate. And they are protected by the church building itself.
Azaleas in Arkansas and points farther south are one thing, but brave azaleas in Warrensburg are another thing entirely. The assurance of God’s love and grace in good times is one thing, but that same assurance in challenging times is another thing entirely.
