I came home from church last Sunday to find my azalea in a state of confusion. It was mid-August, and the azalea near our front door had produced a single bloom, a lovely, bright pink flower that shone from the tiny green leaves surrounding it. My azalea had done what I had expected of it back in May and June. It had fully bloomed, covering itself in flowers—such a deep, rich shade of pink, the blossoms could almost be mistook for red, depending on the light. In the spring, this shrub is one of the first things to bloom, keeping me content and happy until the nearby coneflowers wake up from their dormancy. Too soon, it seems, the azalea’s flowers die and fall off, but that is OK. That is the cycle of the azalea, and I know that flowers will be back next year.
To the casual observer, my azalea would appear unremarkable. It is small, probably a foot in height, but it is my favorite shrub in my flowerbed. When I purchased the young plant in 2008, it was one of three azaleas that I bought and planted. When I was growing up, my mother and grandmother had large, beautiful azaleas in front of their homes in Tennessee—they still do—so these young three azaleas in varying shades of pink were to be reminders for me of home. I will make our house look like Mom's and Granny's, I thought. But this is where my story takes a sad turn. I killed two of those azaleas. I later learned that I had not given the shrubs enough water—young plants need a fair amount as they work to establish themselves in the soil. I ended up having to pull the dead azaleas from the ground, their roots looking just as compact as they had the day I pulled the plants from their plastic containers, though this time the roots were brown and lifeless.
As for the third azalea, the one that surprised me last week, she turned out to be a survivor. Unlike the other two, she had a fair amount of new growth and healthy leaves on her at the time the others were a complete loss. Dead branches covered only one side. I took my small pruners and cut away all the dead parts. Come on, sweetie, live! And then I waited. And waited.
When the azalea began its recovery, it looked lopsided, certainly imperfect, as there was a huge gap in the area where I had pruned. But over time, the mended part of the shrub began to fill in with new growth and young leaves, and now the azalea thrives. I check on the azalea daily, the way a parent watches over a young child.
In recent days, thoughts of the azalea have been intertwined with my concerns about my grandmother, who, by the time you read these words, will have just celebrated her 90th birthday (August 26). Having never had any serious health problems in her life, she was recently diagnosed with colon cancer. I am worried, and afraid, and struggling with a tendency to think of worst-case scenarios at a time when I should be thinking positive and relying on God. After all, that is what I would advise anyone else if they were me. But it is difficult to stay positive sometimes, isn’t it? We are, after all, only human, with human worries.
I find myself wanting the unreasonable, and that is for my Granny to live forever. Of course, she will not, nor would she want to. The other day she said to me, “I see this as the beginning of the winding down.” She said that calmly and matter-of-factly. And in talking about what treatment the doctors might recommend, she spoke these wise words: “You just have to take things one day at a time.”
I share this with you because I find that my mind thinks of little else these days except for a grandmother who loves me and who has always been there for me. I hope for miracles, like the azalea producing a bloom in the oppressive heat of August. But deep down, I simply pray for the touch of God’s caring hand.
I leave you with Psalm 121:1-2—I lift up my eyes to the hills—where does my help come from? My help comes from the Lord, the Maker of heaven and earth.
—Kim Paras
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