the Southland

And there's somethin' 'bout the Southland in the Springtime

Where the waters flow with confidence and reason
Tho I miss her when I'm gone,
It won't ever be too long
'Til I'm home again to spend my favorite season.
When God made me born a Yankee, He was teasin'.
There's no place like home and nothin' more pleasin'
Than the Southland in the Springtime.

I've always loved the gentle strains of this song, but until you spend a Springtime in the South, I don't think you can fully appreciate that 'something' about it. The air is heavy with the fragrance of blossoms. Everything blooms. Everything. Breathtaking is too simple a word for the splendor of it all.

On a rainy night, during my first Springtime in the South, I entered the hospital, heavy and laboring with Baby. Amid the turbulence of that blustery night, my boy was born. Broken. A few days later, his life hovering and fragile, I was released and sent home. With heavy heart, I watched as the world passed by outside the car window, same as always, while mine seemed to have come to a halting stop. And then, as we rounded a bend in the freeway, the most spectacular sight was before me: an entire hill, the median against the cement of the interstate, covered from top to bottom in blooming daffodils. I gasped. I'd never seen such beauty. The glory of God's green earth had, in that moment, reminded me that after each winter comes the welcome, glorious Spring!

Each year after this, as Springtime approaches, I look with anxiety for the signs: buds beginning to show, leaves unfolding on the trees, flowers sending out their shoots. One blossom, above all others, says "Kentucky" to me: the dogwood. I have never again lived in a place where dogwoods were common, and oh, how I miss them when April rolls around. Four years ago today (plus 10 days...I'm a little slow with the post) I was enjoying the glory of toddlerhood and Springtime and memories of miracles, all among the dogwoods.

The symbolism of Springtime will always have an extra special place in my heart, for my 'home' in Kentucky and for my own Springtime miracle boy. Of this I am sure: when life places the bleakness of Winter on your doorstep, God will always, always send the Spring.