Today when I went out to get the paper, I was smitten by the weeping cherry tree in the front garden. Its blossoms were like huge pink puff balls, swaying in a light breeze. It was May Day. The sun was vernally strong.
But I was not here to admire a tree. I was on my way to get the paper, find out what of real importance was happening in the world. I needed to get my coffee, pop my toast down, keep my day going.
I stopped. I looked at this tree. Its form and shape, its silent life. Even though I knew these blossoms had a “purpose,” I wondered why God made purpose so extravagantly beautiful.
I felt an impulse then to move on, get the paper. But I overruled that impulse, standing there a minute longer. My neighbor came down his drive across the street. I figured he could see me standing here staring at a tree. Did he drive on wondering if this Anderson guy knew to come in out of the rain? I stood there anyway. After a while I walked under the tree and let the blossoms fall around me. I held them like clusters of newborns in my hands.
Then I got the paper.
It was old old news.