The dogwoods are blooming – not where
I live in coastal Houston, but farther north and east, in the woods throughout
the South. They are the trees in my childhood memories. I was raised in
Vestavia Hills, a suburb of Birmingham, Alabama. Every April, since 1964, the
city has held a Dogwood Festival to commemorate the trees blooming in the
forests of this city perched on top of Shades Mountain. (Here’s a link: http://vestaviavoice.com/news/where-the-dogwoods-bloom
) We always rode along the Dogwood Trail - me, my mother, and grandmother. My
mother drove us in her red, Chevrolet station wagon – the kind with the genuine
imitation wood on the sides - as we wound our way through the neighborhoods of
our city following the dogwood blossoms freshly painted each year on the
asphalt of the road. Most of the trees bloomed white, but in a few yards, I spied
trees sporting pink blossoms.
There is a legend associated with
the dogwood. The story goes that during Jesus’ lifetime, very few trees in
Israel grew large. But the dogwood was prized for its thick trunk and
strong wood. Because of this, the Romans used the wood to make crosses for
crucifixion. On the day Jesus died, He felt the dogwood’s sadness about His
suffering and about being used for such a purpose. So, Jesus had compassion on
the dogwood and said, “Because of your sorrow and pity for My suffering,
dogwoods will never grow large enough to be used in this way again.” On the day
of Jesus’ Resurrection, the chief wood gatherer for the Romans received news
that all the dogwoods were withering. Hurrying to the forest, he saw that it
was true. From that day forward, the trees have grown slender and twisted. But
beautiful white flowers bloom on the branches in the Springtime. Each blossom forms
a cross made from its four white bracts (which we usually mistakenly call the petals.)
The whiteness symbolizes that Jesus was without sin. Each bract bears a rusty
indentation on the tip, as if made by a nail, to represent the bloody wounds in
Jesus’ hands and feet. The center of the blossom contains little green buds
that open into yellow flowers. The buds represent the crown of thorns placed
on Jesus’ head by his mockers. After the flowers wither, the center forms red,
drop-shaped berries that symbolize Jesus’ blood. Blood shed for me. And
for you.
Last
December, my family was asked to contribute an ornament to our church’s
Chrismon tree. If you’re not familiar with this tradition, it began in 1957 at
Ascension Lutheran Church in Danville, Virginia. Francis Spencer wanted to
decorate a tree for her church’s sanctuary that emphasized the birth, life, and
death of Jesus as the reason for celebrating Christmas. The word Chrismon is a
combination of the Greek word for Christ – Christos
- and the word “monogram.” The first decorations Mrs. Spencer made were simple
crosses, but through the years and as the tradition spread to other churches of
various denominations, the choices have expanded to include symbols encompassing
traditions from the earliest days of Christianity to the present. White,
silver, and gold are the preferred colors. The symbols are interdenominational
to reflect the shared faith and heritage of all Christians. Mrs. Spencer went
on to write five illustrated books about the tradition of the Chrismon tree
which also include patterns for ornaments. (Here’s a link to Ascension Lutheran’s
Chrismon ministry site with all sorts of additional information: http://www.chrismon.org/site/chrismon.htm ) For
our contribution to our church’s tree, we selected a dogwood blossom. I found an
image on Google, traced the outline, and cut it from heavy, white felt. I outlined
the edges of the white bracts with silver glitter glue. In the center of the blossom,
I squeezed gold glitter glue for the tiny, yellow flowers. And in the notch of
each bract’s tip, I dabbed red glitter glue to represent the bloody, nail
wounds.
My
family marched to the front of the church on the Sunday evening designated for
decorating the Chrismon tree. My 9-year-old daughter carried the dogwood ornament by its
silver ribbon. “We’ve chosen the dogwood blossom for our ornament,” she
announced to the congregation. My son and I took turns reading lines from the
legend, and my mother concluded by telling about the Dogwood Festival back
home. My grandmother wasn’t with us, but I know she watched from Heaven as my
little girl hung the ornament on the tree for all to see.
Now, in
the Spring, the only dogwoods I see are the ones I find on Google Images. But
on second thought, that’s not true. I see, in my mind, the ones from my
childhood. And I’m back, once again, in my hometown, riding along the Dogwood
Trail in that red station wagon with my mother and grandmother.
May
your tea be sweet and your cotton high,
Leigh
Ann Thornton
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