The pink Azalea died.
I noticed and mourned its absence this morning, just as I had witnessed and celebrated its appearance a few weeks ago.
It was the only one of its kind blooming on a shrub of white azaleas.
I wonder now if the shrub with its glorious green leaves would have summoned and captivated me so if it had not been for the one pink Azalea blooming in the wonder of white. I walk closer to inspect the roots, to quell the question of its belonging meandering in my mind
Would I have been compelled to snap this photo?
To stay a while delighting in the conundrum of one pink Azalea blooming in an ocean of white?
The question is answered upon inspection. It was not placed there by the hands of man. Instead, like the white Azaleas, the pink Azalea’s stem had been connected to the limb, shooting out of the same root.
It’s the only one of its kind and so I think of The Ones who have made imprints in my mind and in my life.
Ian, a hiker who braved the Jamaican countryside, was the first white man I saw when I was seven years old.
Jose Sanchez, a flamboyant Cuban professor, lit the light of learning and revealed to me that seeking knowledge is an amazing adventure.
Marquita, the one African-American woman in a room of eighty-two white mothers at MOPS. Her patience extends like a mother’s outstretched arms.
Irene, the one Korean friend who bridged the gap between the Korean and English speakers on the grounds of Columbia Theological Seminary.
Diane, one of my mother’s coworker, who became Auntie Di to my siblings and me, and a sister to my mother after my father died.
Amy, the one female pastor, standing in the podium, preaching sermons to a handful of retired male pastors, whose critique is sometimes not gentle or kind.
My own husband, the one face of “diversity” on a church staff. He shows up and offers challenging and comforting pastoral prayers. He prays for the lives of young black men in a sea of white faces and offers up gratitude for warm summer days.
There are mini worlds of Race, Language, Gender, Culture, and Sexuality that divides us. Within these worlds are The Ones – the people who will not allow boundaries to contain them. They continue to hike into unknown territories; teach with passion; show up when outnumbered; bridge the gap; pastor those who do not like a woman pastor or a black man in leadership, and grieve with a sister – because its heart that binds them, not blood.
The pink Azalea died.
But not before I walked over, admired its root and was amazed by the enigma of its existence.
Its bravery to bloom, despite being the only one of its kind.
Be The One. Bloom where you are.
Kadine Christie
