On Redbud Branches and the Long Way Home

In the grand scheme of church traditions, this “living cross” of Easter morning is relatively new, but it’s one of my favorites. This is one tradition that isn’t more painful after Cooper’s death; I loved it before and I love it now. Period.

Here’s how it works: congregants bring flowers and we decorate a bare wooden cross, one flower, one person, at a time. It’s a lovely, moving process that means far more than flowers stuck in chicken wire.

I usually bring bloodroot from my yard; it seems appropriate to wedge tiny, red-sapped flowers in with the larger, brighter flowers. This year, the bloodroot was early and Easter was late; I needed another flower. I do have daffodils in my yard, but I also have two redbud trees that are working their way toward blooming. In fact, on Good Friday I snipped a redbud branch and wedged it in the frayed bark of a cedar tree in a quiet country cemetery. That cedar tree. That quiet country cemetery.

Redbud it is.

If you look closely at the cross, you can see a scrawny twig near the bottom on the left. That’s part of my redbud branch. It looks like nothing, doesn’t it? From a distance, it looks like a brown stick—an accidental addition to the cross. Not worthy. Not beautiful. Not enough. From a distance, it even passes for dead.

Give it a chance.

Take a closer look.

Be patient.

There’s hidden life in the redbud, in those pinkish-brown nubs, in the innocuous bumps on twiggy sticks. Check back in a week, and keep checking. Those nothing knots and nubs will be glorious. Have faith. Soon enough (Easter snow flurries aside), the redbud will be the darling of the timber, the fashionista of the roadside. It just takes time. We can’t put a hot-house rush on a redbud tree.

Turns out, we can’t put a hot-house rush on me, either.

Sure, the redbud branch was a strange contribution to the living cross, but it felt right. Still does. I can relate to that branch.

I’m not dead, even though I may look it, act it, and even feel it at times. Life is lurking. A bloom will come, but in its own time. Don’t expect me to be a fashionista, but that’s a whole other deal.

There are so many things that have just fallen away in the aftermath of Cooper’s death—so many things I loved to do that no longer interest me on the same level. In some cases, my brain isn’t back to its old self, so the formerly fun and natural-to-me activity is difficult or even impossible. That’s an awesome side-effect of grief that has me screwing up things that came easily in the Before. Thank God for do-overs and patient people.

Other things I find myself avoiding because they just hurt too damn much.

In 2020, when the state shut down and my own world began to unravel, Cooper and I spent many spring and summer evenings driving around rural McDonough and Schuyler counties. In the spring, we just wandered around, looking for deer and signs of life. I drove; he rode. We visited. After June 28, after his 10 days in the wild and his week in the hospital, our rides took on new meaning. I drove; he rode. I watched the road instead of him and, knowing my eyes weren’t on him, he opened up. He talked about his brushes with death during those 10 days in the Shawnee, about what was real, what wasn’t real, and not always knowing the difference. He told me truths that broke my heart but helped me understand what had happened and was happening still. Those hours and miles and sunsets and Full Scoop drive-thru visits were ours alone. Now, those roads are uniquely sacred to me. The land between the Colmar blacktop and the Plymouth blacktop will always trigger memories of those last months.

Those winding roads and river bottoms hold both heartache and solace. I haven’t spent much time on those roads since Coop died.

Saturday night, I took that very long and winding path home from my parents’ farm. It was a beautiful clear day and I had time. I just drove. I took the scenic gravel route and absorbed what God and Mother Nature had to offer. I welcomed the peace of the place. I watched for Amish buggies on their way to a gathering. I rolled down my window and listened to the frogs singing. I drove and remembered and smiled. I drove some more and cried. I saw turkeys and deer, a swooping eagle and six free-range cows, and laughed in delight. Coop would’ve loved that ride home.

I still cry most days, but I no longer apologize for the tears; they are just part of me right now. Like that scraggly redbud branch, I am alive. I may not have the cheery yellow daffodil appearance that makes others happy and comfortable, but give me time. I’m working on a blossom.