Not long after we lost our Jimmy, we created a memorial garden in the backyard. We knew we wanted a dogwood tree at the center, so we planted a tiny one right outside the window where we could be sure to witness its progress.
In many ways, the little tree’s fragility mirrored our own. Planted on unfamiliar terrain, in a landscape completely altered, its very survival felt uncertain. So did ours. And still, we placed it in the earth, hoping against hope that something might take root and grow—for it, and for us.
Each spring, we’ve watched as it slowly stretched toward the sun, roots deepening, branches reaching, limbs unfurling and life unfolding.
Just this past week, it bloomed again. A quiet resurrection. An emphatic refusal to be defined by what was lost. A stubborn display of growth that cannot be thwarted and life that transcends loss.
Pondering its transformation anew, the tree makes me more mindful of what I want my life to become: a testament not just to what was lost, but to all that was loved.
After Jimmy’s loss, time began to feel both weightless and heavy. Days blurred, and yet each one presented me with a choice: Would I simply exist, or would I live? And if I chose to live, what kind of life would I make of what remained?
From one who has walked the barren places and lost her way in myriad ways, let me remind you that God still works with broken timelines and devastated plans. Significance is not something we miss once and then forfeit forever—it’s something we return to, one brave decision at a time.
As the dogwood blooms again each year, so too does the chance for renewal. Similarly, we can choose to let our lives unfold in ways that reflect not just the sorrows we’ve endured, but the beauty we’ve dared to cultivate in their wake.
So, let us choose well. Let us love, not just in word, but in deed, careful to demonstrate all that we articulate.
May we serve those whose needs are great, but resources few, not out of obligation, but compassion.
May we be the hands and feet of Jesus to the least of these: the lost, the hurting, the hungry and in need, so that when our own dogwood trees are planted, our legacies, like Jimmy’s, will be ones of lives well lived—lives ultimately celebrated and remembered not simply for their duration, but for the enduring impact they made and the love they left behind.
“The greatest purpose of life is to live it for something that will last longer than you.”
~ 𝐖𝐢𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐚𝐦 𝐉𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐬