We moved into our new house in Virginia on April 9, Dad’s birthday. It rained the entire day—a chill, gray drizzle falling from a thick, sour cream sky.

Preceding the moving truck, we turned into the long, paved driveway, each of us in an agony of anticipation. We missed our toys; we missed our beds; we missed our routines. We missed having a home. Could this place be home?

A wild spray of pink lace, vibrant and welcoming against the drear.

A host of tiny flowers bursting out of smooth gray bark.

The branches, stunning magenta spears raised in gracious salute.

Who could forget a redbud’s silent yet raucous, staid yet exuberant welcome?

I climbed it at the first opportunity.

The marvel of discovering, as pink blossoms drifted down to the moss below, that the redbud unfurled shiny heart-shaped leaves of an almost translucent green. They were stunning in their own right, and lovely to finger—thin as paper, but pulsing with new life.

That spring, perched in the heights of the redbud, I lost my first tooth—embedded in a Granny Smith.

That fall, Missi and I gathered redbud seed pods that looked delightfully like peas. From our eager fists into our moss-lined baskets they fluttered, joining a bumper crop of acorns, juniper berries, and velvety sumac cones. We believed, much to our sorrow, that the seed pods were exceedingly poisonous, but they were still a satisfying addition to our ongoing game of foraging for winter.

Much later, I learned that redbud blossoms and peas are indeed edible. What my six-year-old self would have given for that knowledge!

One Saturday morning not long after we moved in, I heard Dad holler a general invitation to the children scattered throughout the yard that we were welcome to join him for snow cones. I scrambled down the redbud to join the throng of siblings running pell-mell for his old Toyota.

We all loved snow cones. We had frequented a snow cone stand near our home in Texas; this was to be our first snow cone treat since coming to Virginia. I didn’t even know they had snow cones in Virginia!

We pulled into a gas station at the corner of our quiet road and the highway, and I was a little confused. Dad hadn’t said anything about getting gas. But no worries, surely we’d gas up and be on our way.

A new reader, I sounded out the sign on the gas station. Son-o-co. Said aloud, the syllables reminded me oddly of the word snow cone. How appropriate! The familiar sequence of the nozzle rattling into its snug holster, the gas cap clicking shut, the whining alert that the keys were in the ignition as Dad opened the driver’s door. We were off!

And suddenly pulling back into our own driveway.

We—or maybe just I—had misunderstood. It was not an invitation for snow cones. It was an invitation to Sonoco.

My disappointment shimmered through the haze of embarrassment as we piled out of the car and back into the yard. I was just glad that no one knew. Unlike that time in Texas when I had thought we were going boating when we were really going voting.

Ten years later, back in the Toyota with Dad, we were hurtling through the Blue Ridge Valley in early April. Dogwood, forsythia, Bradford pear, daffodils, and redbud skimmed past, an entrancing vision against the backdrop of yet another drizzly, gray Virginia spring day.

It was magical enough to almost make us forget where we were going.

My parents were driving me to an appointment with the preeminent brain surgeon at the University of Virginia.  A week of two prior, I had been diagnosed with a brain tumor on my sixteenth birthday. We were now charging through the mist to meet my doctor, begin testing, and schedule my surgery as a biopsy was too dangerous.

I focused on breathing steadily, in out in out in out, an increasingly difficult task as the tumor’s rapid growth at the base of my brain had damaged nerves communicating with my lungs. I drank in that lovely damp spring, so much like my first Virginia spring, passively wondering if I’d live to see another.

Nothing like spring to make you want to live; nothing like spring to make you realize when, for the first time, you can’t match its energy. I mulled the vivacity of redbuds in spring, feeling fragile and weary in their shadow yet grateful, always grateful, for their exuberant strength.   

I woke from my musings to the sound of Dad’s voice, tense and agitated. We were extremely low on gas and might not make it to the next exit which was further away than he had anticipated. If we broke down on the highway, we would miss my appointment. We could not break down.

After many long, anxious minutes, we veered down an offramp, ran the stop sign at the bottom, and literally coasted into the gas station parking lot. We had to push the car from the entrance, lined with redbuds, to the gas pump.

When we finally arrived, Charlottesville was awash with blossoms. I remember being almost overwhelmed by the brilliance and the sheer number of blooming trees. It was stunningly verdant and alive. So recklessly alive.

Despite our situation, I remember joy that day. The camaraderie in the crisis felt warm and comforting. It was so pleasant to be on the same team, to have a shared purpose, a joint goal.

It had been a long time.