One of my favorite things about spring is the wildflowers. We are so blessed here in Texas, especially Central Texas, with abundant wildflowers. God has truly gifted us with a feast for the eyes.
Heartier, and taller, they suddenly shoot up past the canopy of weeds that has overtaken the earlier blossoms. Perhaps they don't form a photogenic backdrop the way a patch of bluebonnets does, drawing many a motorist to tary by the right of way for a bit; but I feel like they have a stark, independent beauty and I've always admired their bicolored blossoms.
Deep down I think most every girl enjoys flowers. If she says they are a waste of money, go pick some free ones and see if they don't bring a smile to her face.
Part of what I don't enjoy about the spring, here in Texas, is that it heralds the approach of summer with its oppressive heat and parched landscape. Heat waves blur distant views once enjoyed, threats of wildfires whisper on breezes reminiscent of opening the oven to check on supper.
Any thoughts of going outdoors and doing much of anything fade and crumble in the withering summer sun. And yet here in Central Texas it somehow remains so humid that the air feels like a thickened soup as you try to draw breath.
So every year as the bright reds of the Indian Paintbrushes fade and the bluebonnets, battered and torn by the spring rains, are overtaken by flowerless grasses and sickly yellow bastard cabbage, I feel the hints of an August firestorm brewing as the sun climbs its arc ever higher with each passing day.
Growing up I knew them as Indian Blankets. While there will always be something special about the vivid blue of the Texas bluebonnets and their rebellion against nature's color palate ... I think Indian Blankets have always been my true favorite.
Perhaps they are not as popular as their older sisters, but they seem almost to cry "Wait! Spring isn't over! Nature's beauty has not withered away in the sun just yet."
And in my own life, often as I think a beloved season is passing and vibrancy of life is going wane dull, God breathes new fire into my days. I loved my children as helpless, gurgling babies. But, cry foul if you must, there is something beguiling about my two-year-old's ability to dramaticize being given what she asked for and suddenly no longer wants.
I pray every season will have its Firewheel, and when my life itself is withered and blowing away like chaff in the wind the blooms in heaven will make me forget the wildflowers of spring that so spoke to me here in their season.