There’s a mimosa tree in our front yard that habitually takes a little longer to reawaken in the spring. Neighboring pears, plums, lilacs, and cottonwoods proudly produce buds in early April — precocious, eager things. The buds morph delicately, divinely into blossoms, accompanied by leaves whose green is birdsong in color.
The mimosa, by contrast, stands coolly, unmoved.
Does it mind? Does it envy the progress of its peers? Like the rest of us, is it still wrestling with learning to trust in God’s timing, in His perfect, unhurried plan?
Or does the mimosa know, inherently, that its design and creation were deliberate? Does it flutter its desiccated seed pods and wave its unadorned branches in sincere well-wishing and appreciation of the other trees and their accomplishments? Does it quietly know, with no uncertainty, that in due time it will be resplendent in luxurious green, hedonistic pink, and nectar-drunk bees?
I want to reassure it, cheer it on, whatever the case. I want to say, “Never you mind, mimosa. You’re not late, or weird, or wrong. You’re healthy, you’re strong, you’re loved, and you’re right on time.”