Parable of the Azalea

At the edge of my yard, where the lawn meets the woods, grows a pathetic azalea bush. I didn't even know it was there until someone pointed it out. It was actually my friend Adam, who was doing some landscaping for me. He'd brought me two beautiful healthy azaleas to be planted next to my porch. As he dug and planted he said, "Well, you've got one azalea already."
"Where?" I asked
"Right there." He pointed to the edge of the woods. "That bush there, - it's an azalea. It looks like someone threw it there. It was probably half dead so they just dug it up and tossed it aside; -but somehow it took root and has survived.
And that was the only mention of the scraggly puny azalea bush at the edge of my lot. I did notice it a few weeks later when it attempted to bloom a handful of white flower, but I disregarded it.
It paled in comparison to the two beautiful bushes that had burst forth in glorious, bright pink flowers. I was so enamored with my healthy azaleas. I tended to them each week, - watering them and giving them fertilizer to help them grow.
Throughout the seasons, a large oak tree with low hanging branches sprouted its leaves, and weeds on the edge of the lot grew taller. I forgot all about that azalea bush…until yesterday.
My mom and I spent the day landscaping and she noticed it at the edge of the lot. "Oh look, you have an azalea growing there. " She looked it over. "If you pruned it back it would do well." (Mom's always had a heart for the underdog.)
I took her advice. Armed with nothing but a set of hand pliers, I set out to trim that pitiful looking thing.
Getting to the bush was half the battle. First, I had to cut away the branches of the oak and a pine trees that prevented me from reaching it. Then, as I raked away the weeds and fall leaves surrounding the base, I discovered additional limbs that had been buried, and an ominous looking vine that had entwined itself through the branches.
I began cutting away the dead limbs. After the dead limbs, I pulled out the vine. After the vine, I cut away the scrawny twigs that were only producing a few leaves, -plants are more productive when putting all of their energy towards thick healthy branches. Then, I turned to the wild limbs that had spouted out of control. They had to be trimmed to create the shape I wanted. Finally, I added fertilizer for a catalyst of new life within it. I stepped back to give it a once over.
Once it had been abandoned and disregarded. It had sat neglected as others received favor and attention. But the canopy had been lifted, a parasitic element detached, the dead removed, and the life refocused. I saw what my mother had seen all along: Potential to be something great.

Nawh-leens

I was in New Orleans 43 days ago. I had such mixed feeling about the Big Easy. I puzzled the fact that a whole southern economy could be based on nudie bars, alcohol, and t-shirts with the F- word, but not sweet tea. I was overwhelmed that so many older people had service jobs, and many of them looked as though they were homeless. And I was surprised that such a huge portion of its population was black, -that says a lot coming from someone who grew up in Flint, MI
While I was so over the heat, and whole Bourbon Street experience, I fell in love with the food, the history, the music, and most of all the people. Heidi and I met or encountered so many people in New Orleans who captured a tiny piece of my heart:
Doc Lewis, the trombone player, who let me "help" him play when The Saints Go Marching In.
Frankie, the street musician, who tried to serenade us with a Pearl Jam song. I paid him to stop.
Anne, the chef who taught us to cook "gumbo and prah-leens" Her theory in life was "Oil is good…lard is better".

Our tour guide from the cemetery tour.
The nameless man on the bike who I'd assumed was homeless, until I saw his I-pod.
The staff at Mothers, who weren't the best at service, but who made a crab po' boy that I can never forget.
The man who sang gospel music for us at the fountain as we soaked our tired feet, -there's something peacefully humbling about a toothless homeless man singing, "God's Been So Good to Me"
Our trolley driver, who entertained himself by telling new passengers that his trolley was full and they'd have to continue to wait in the hot sun for the next one. He'd start to drive off and then suddenly halt and fling the doors open with a laugh! "C'mon y'all. I's just jokin'"
The waiter who served me turtle soup. He dampened my excitement when he told me it was made with veal.
The Russian puppeteer who made his marionettes come to life outside Jackson square. They sang, they whispered, and they danced to James Brown's "Sex Machine"
The beautiful dancing girl on the street corner who tried to lure people into the bar.
The homeless woman in the bright yellow dress and white stocking.
They are all etched into my memory. And now as I watch the news reports of the devastation left by Hurricane Katrina, I have a burden to pray for these people. For me, the victims are not nameless faces, but real people I have shared experiences with. I wonder if they are there, if they made it out early, or made it out alive at all. I wonder who will take care of them; I wonder if I'll ever have answers to my questions.