the Bradford Pears

A hauntingly beautiful drive…

That is what I get to enjoy on my way to work one week a year because of a simple tree named the Bradford Pear, a tree that lines the last stretch of the journey between the outside world and my working world.

For years these sentries have stood towering over the entrance to my church. To most they are likely insignificant street-dressing, if seen at all. But to me, even as far back as the first time I ever passed them, they’ve meant something more.

the Bradford Pear.

To those who know, it is a tree name that at once brings to mind beauty and death. Known for its eye-catching pre-season white-as-snow blooms and post-season crimson foilage, the Bradford Pear’s reputation for beauty is only eclipsed by it’s reputation for death. Sadly, most of these wonders do not live to see the age of twenty. Few at all live to see twenty-five.

And yet, they are everywhere. Their white blooms springing to life every year right before Easter. And every Easter, I am brought joy and sadness as their brilliant white blooms fill the horizon along the path of my daily journey. They are so hauntingly beautiful.

But this year is different.

This Easter, I am filled again with a mixture of great joy and overwhelming sadness. Not simply because of the trees, but because my passing of them is a reminder of the greatest mentor in my life… and his long journey home.

As these trees spring to life in a blaze of white furry, one of the greatest men I have ever known (perhaps even the greatest) spends his final days awaiting his last breath.