One of the last field trips I took with my father, just a few weeks before we found out that he was ill, was to buy a crepe myrtle for Sandhill.  After numerous arboreal failures, sincere but unsuccessful attempts at turning my peanut-field-turned-yard into something lawn-like (Think dogwoods and camellias), I remained optimistic about trying to bring some color to my environs.  After investigation, I decided that the crape myrtle might be hardy enough to withstand the benign neglect at which I was very good.
Daddy and I, along with my brother, who is the one who had the truck, took off for town that early spring morning and, unable to find a crepe myrtle at the first couple of places we stopped, ended up at a nursery just outside town where a fresh-faced college student in khakis and a polo shirt led us out back to examine their stock.  When she asked me what color, I said, “Not bright pink.”
They had several shades of “not bright pink,” including a lavender that made me think of the satin lining of the academic hood I wore when I graduated from Wesleyan.  I picked that one.
At the suggestion of someone who knows a whole lot more about plants than I do, the spindly, slick-limbed tree found itself planted on the west side of the house, tucked in between the chimney and the bay window in the kitchen, a quiet little cove where the winds that regularly race across the field would be able to do little damage.  Through the long living room windows I watched the thin branches bob in the breeze and, eventually, sprout hard round buds that suddenly one day burst into crinkled petals of pale purple that looked just like the crepe paper for which, I assumed, they were named.
I learned that the clusters of flowers are called panicles.  I learned that they are nicknamed “the lilac of the South.”  I learned that they can grow as tall as 40 feet and they can live over 50 years.  I was so proud.
A few weeks ago after one of the multiple cold snaps that blew in after a week of 80-degree weather, I realized that the crepe myrtle, just days before covered in shiny green fronds, had gone completely brown.  The toothpick-size branches and the pea-sized buds were the color of strong coffee.  Not a hint of life to be seen.
I was bereft.  
That Sunday at church, as the prelude spread across the sanctuary from the organ’s belly, my frequent pewmate Kim and I were, not surprisingly discussing the weather.  Still shivering from my walk across the parking lot, I whined about the hesitancy of spring to come and stay and the next thing I knew I was telling Kim how said I was that my crepe myrtle had not survived the latest freezing temperatures.
Kim is an excellent gardener.  She was also, for many years, a labor and delivery nurse.  She has maternal skills and instincts I can admire, but never replicate.
“You might,” she spoke softly as the prelude’s last notes gathered momentum and came down to rest gently on our shoulders, “just wait.  I’ve found that sometimes things come back.”  She said it in a tone that suggested she might not be talking about just crepe myrtles.
This past Saturday, after a long week of traveling and less than restful sleep, I went outside to take deep breaths and watch the sunset.  The last golden rays spilled across the landscape like a spotlight, falling into the corner where the crepe myrtle stood, covered in bright green leaves.
My back to the sunset, I stood and stared, not in surprise but gratitude – for wise friends and the willingness to wait.