Right On Time

“So build me up (Build me up),
Buttercup, don’t break my heart.” (1968) “Build Me Up Buttercup” Recorded By: The Foundations Composers: Mike d’Abo and Tony Macaulay

Like a voice crying out in the wilderness, I hear,

“Remember, that patch by the fence is not to be mowed.”

That’s the directive on mowing day as my wife, Michelle, dictates like clockwork at this time of year. She has good reason to. First, and foremost, she is our landscape artist at our house. She truly knows what she’s doing, and it shows.

Photo: From our backyard. A better camera would give honesty to the colors.

However, when spring is launched here in our area of north-central Texas, she knows what to anticipate concerning what she didn’t plant or groom.

In our backyard, on the east side of the property line by the fence, weeds begin to reach for the sky in late March, early April. One can take a quick gander out the window each day and wonder if this will be the day they all should be wacked down to the nubs. NO! Like bread dough baking in the oven, life is being nurtured through that miniature jungle. Then about April 13th, the eyesore might remind someone of the butterfly popping out of the cocoon. Overnight the tall, gangly weed stalks take on a new wardrobe.

Photo: What’s up, Buttercup?

Like welcomed visitors from another branch of the family, Buttercups shine their lovely faces for all to see. I’m sure our neighbors are much happier now.

It’s just outstanding to me. My wife never has to dig, cultivate, seed, or water them. The Buttercups have a Gardener tending them, and it’s not us. This Gardener has His own clock, and He sticks to it. You might say, it’s a promise every year.

We recently took a drive up from Dallas to Oklahoma City to visit family. Among the beauty of southern Oklahoma, with the Davis Mountains, Turner Falls, and the Red River, the scenic drive includes a generous helping of Indian Paintbrushes, Buttercups, and other brilliantly colored wildflowers along the freeway shoulders.

Photo by nagaraju gajula on Pexels.com

It’s a tad too early in April to catch the full explosion of the Texas Bluebonnets, but some are beginning to be early risers, but they’re on their way.

Photo by Irina Iriser on Pexels.com

As the splash of hues grace the drive north of the Red River, one is reminded that state officials didn’t have to order any landscaping along the I-35 corridor.

Photo by Tom Fisk on Pexels.com

Spring has been set aside by the Orchestrator of the seasons. And let me say, the timing is “on purpose”.

Photo: Our backyard with one of our residents. Mr. Squirrel knows it’s time.

Have you ever wondered why the wild has its blooms during this time of year? Winter, the season of frost, bare trees and wilted gardens, begins to exhale for the last time just as spring takes its inhale. Before you can drag out the water hose, what seemed like dead trees, dormant plants, and lifeless vines, rises again to new life, shouting out…

“Hey, those with souls! Look at us! Though we were dead, yet we live. Here’s the proof!”

“For you shall go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and the hills before you shall break forth into singing, and all the trees of the field shall clap their hands. Instead of the thorn shall come up the cypress; instead of the brier shall come up the myrtle; and it shall make a name for the LORD, an everlasting sign that shall not be cut off.” Isaiah 55:12-13 (ESV)

There is a hand Who touches the world of horticulture. Designed to testify during the scheduled time of the events of Passover and Easter. Florals, and all its cousins, pointing to what was once dead, now lives again. What was once seen as “done & buried”, arrives with extreme, uninhibited life, colors, along with a loud voice of the purest details of Theology. No restraints. No need for wrappings. No need for shackles.

As I reach for my next snort of Flonase, my wife rejoices at the new life in our yard. By the way, she is the best of blooms.

Buried beneath the rubble of days, find springtime all year in fuel for the race.

“The blossoms have already appeared in the land; The time has arrived for pruning the vines, And the voice of the turtledove has been heard in our land.” Song Of Solomon 2:12 (NAS)