Springtime in our nation’s capital is marked by an acclaimed phenomenon which draws innumerable spectators who have been anticipating an end to the bleak chill of winter.  Sometime between the months of March and April, unmoved by scrupulously forecasted predictions, the rosy white petals of the Cherry Blossom trees make their debut, blanketing the landscape of this bustling city and leaving an almost mesmerizing aura in the wake of their gaze.  An otherwise undeviating traffic pattern slows and cameras of bystanders stand ready to capture the all-too-fleeting moments of this annual event. Onlookers truly cannot help but become enthralled by such a display.  This year, while visiting family and friends, I had an opportunity to catch a glimpse of this extraordinary sight, but what I actually saw was even more remarkable than I had imagined.

I had hoped to outsmart nature by making it in time to see the blooms in full array, but I had failed in this regard, arriving a bit too late.  For now, I would have to settle for viewing the remnants.  I could not help but detect a subtle note of pity sounding from DC residents which seemed to indicate the great misfortune I had landed by missing out on a spectacle so magnificent.  Somewhat disappointed, I put on a brave face and turned my efforts toward admiring other foliage which appeared more patient in awaiting my arrival.

Attempts to repress my disappointment proved largely successful, not dampening my sight-seeing adventures.  There was one place, however, where I was once again reminded of what I had missed.  On a walk through ArlingtonCemetery, I could not ignore the multitude of blossoms which had been nudged to the ground, had begun losing their hue and been crushed by the weight of lingering passersby.  As my eyes stared down, first at the petals and then at a young friend’s name on a headstone, my mind flashed in rapid succession various images of loss which had dawned too soon.  These fallen petals had cheated me out of a glimpse of beauty.  Now they were guiding me toward deeper visions of loss- loss of dreams, loss of cherished hopes, and loss of life.  In this moment, a wave of grief washed over me and I found it difficult to grasp what I affirm cognitively to be true: death really has been swallowed up in victory. 

I believe if flowers could speak, the ones closest to me began their whispering invitation.  From the ground below, these broken and listless blooms seemed to be pointing my eyes toward a place where there will be no fading of glory, splendor or life.  Even out of their own experience with death, these blooms had given way to life in the way of new growth on the burgeoning trees above.  How I yearned for these fresh signs of hope to lead me once again to a deeper reality. Though standing in a place where death literally surrounded me, I wanted to confidently challenge its hold as the apostle Paul had done in his letter to the Corinthians:  “Where, O death is your victory?  Where, O death is your sting?”

Just as I had hoped, the green tints of spring began to have their effect.  The surety behind Paul’s words had come because he understood that Christ had not been conquered, even by the enemy of death.  Though the full penalty for sins had been laid upon Him, He had overcome its reign, rising again to new life.  And His rising secured the resurrection of those whose faith is found in Him.  For this reason, the song touting death’s reign can be offered here and now as well as in the future.  Though for a little while we experience a measure of death, Christ’s victory has assured us of a truer reality.  The reality to come precludes the presence of death and all that it encompasses.  And in this new place, where all will be made new, those who’ve died in Christ now will be clothed with imperishable life.                                                                                                                                                                        

As the wind picked up, I turned my attention back to the path from which I had come.  At once, my eye caught another view of the fallen cherry blossoms.  This time, I could not help but store up gratitude for the places they had helped me come in my heart.  In all their falleness, they had pointed me to the truth.  Just perhaps I had not arrived too late after all.