Midweek Musing 4/1/26: The Dogwood

Midweek Musing: The Dogwood

I remember a time when I was growing up when my mother took up painting.

Now, I am not talking about repainting a bedroom wall or touching up the trim. I mean actual painting. Still lifes. The kind with an old mason jar sitting just so, or a kitchen basket full of farm fresh eggs arranged in the light like it belonged in somebody’s country home magazine. She painted simple things, familiar things, the kind of things that most people might pass by without a second thought.

But my favorite was always the painting of a dogwood branch in bloom.

Now the dogwood tree was, without a doubt, her favorite tree. Every year she loved watching them emerge from their winter hibernation and burst out into the world in white and pink, as if creation itself was announcing that spring had returned and life was beginning again. And every year, right around Easter, as we were tucked into bed, she would tell us the legend of the dogwood.

It is an old story, and a beautiful one. Sometimes she would read one of the several versions of poems that are around. Sometimes she just told the story plain and simple.

If you are not familiar, the legend says that in Jesus’ time the dogwood grew tall and strong. Its wood was sturdy enough to be used for building, and according to the story, it was chosen for the cross of Christ. After the crucifixion, the tree was so overcome by sorrow because of its role in the death of Christ that it was changed forever.

Never again, the legend says, would the dogwood grow large enough to be used for such a purpose. Instead, it would become smaller and bent, and each spring its blossoms would bear the shape of the cross. Its four petals would carry marks that resemble nail wounds stained with blood, and the center would suggest a crown of thorns.

Now let me be clear. The Bible does not mention the dogwood tree in connection with the crucifixion. Not once. This is not a biblical claim. It is a legend. A piece of Christian folklore. But as I have gotten older, I have come to understand that sometimes a story does not have to be historically verifiable to be spiritually meaningful. Sometimes a story helps us see what has been true all along.

And what the legend of the dogwood does so beautifully is hold together grief and hope.

That is, after all, what Holy Week asks us to do.

The events of Holy Week do not allow us to move too quickly to Easter with its lilies and alleluias.

Holy Week asks us to walk through the waving palms that turn into cries for crucifixion.

It asks us to sit at the table where Jesus breaks bread and speaks of betrayal.

It asks us to kneel in the shadows of Gethsemane, to stand at the foot of the cross, to feel the weight of silence on Holy Saturday.

And only then, only after we have faced the very real pain and grief honestly, do we hear the astonishing news that the tomb is empty. That Christ is risen – He is risen indeed.

Yes, the legend of the dogwood refuses to rush past the cross, but it also refuses to stay there. It blooms.

That may be why it has stayed with me all these years. Because even now decades later the story my mom told in hopes of putting me to sleep resurfaces every season with the dogwood bloom.

Because of my mother, whenever I see dogwood blooms, I still see what that story says.

I see the bloodstains on the edges of the petals. I see the slight notches that look as though they could have been made by nails. I see the center and think of a crown of thorns. Yes, I know from research that botanists would tell us those white or pink parts are bracts and not true flower petals. And I know the real flowers are clustered in the middle and they are not a crown. I know the legend is not Scripture.

And yet when the dogwoods bloom, I still remember.

I remember the story.I remember my mother’s voice.I remember that the Christian faith has always dared to say that suffering and beauty can exist side by side.I remember that the worst thing is never the last thing.

There is something deeply fitting about the dogwood blooming when it does. It comes at that threshold moment when winter has not been forgotten but spring is clearly arriving. It does not bloom in the dead heat of summer when everything is already lush and easy. It blooms when the world is just beginning to wake up again, when the earth still carries the memory of cold. And it blooms right when the church is telling the story of death and life, sorrow and joy, cross and resurrection.

That is part of why it speaks so powerfully to me during Holy Week. The dogwood does not deny the wound. It bears it. But it bears it in bloom.

And maybe that is the gospel – the good news.

You see our faith does not teach that pain is imaginary. Nor that grief is weakness. It does not proclaim that the cross was no big deal, and we should hurry on to happier things.

The good news is that God can take even the worst the world can do and somehow, mysteriously, bring life out of it. The gospel is that what looked like defeat on Friday became redemption by Sunday. The gospel is that even though the scars remain, the tomb remains empty as well.

I think that is why the dogwood has endured as a symbol for so many Christians. Whether the legend is historically true is almost beside the point. It tells the truth like parables tell the truth. It gives us a way of seeing. It teaches our hearts to notice grace in the natural world. It invites us to look closely at something blooming in our yard and remember the story at the center of our faith.

And perhaps that is no small gift.

Because in a world where suffering is real and grief can be found around every corner, we need symbols that help us hold on. We need reminders that beauty can emerge from brokenness.

We need signs that do not ask us to pretend everything is fine, but that gently whisper that death will not have the final word.

The dogwood does that for me.

It takes me back to my mother’s painting. To her voice telling the old story at bedtime. To springtime arriving just as the church enters its holiest days. To the reminder that faith is not about avoiding the hard parts of life but trusting that God is somehow at work even there.

So, this Holy Week, when you see a dogwood tree in bloom, perhaps let it preach to you a little.

Let it remind you of the cross.Let it remind you of the grief.Let it remind you of the love strong enough to endure suffering.And then let it remind you that it blooms and bursts forth in beauty even if it holds scars.

Because that is our story too.

We are people who do not rush past Good Friday. We are people who know that pain is real, that loss and hurt cut deep, and that some Saturdays feel unbearably quiet because of the grief we feel.

But we are also people who believe that God is still bringing life where we expected only death, hope where we expected only despair, and beauty where we expected only sorrow.

The dogwood, whether by legend or by grace, has become a witness to that mystery.

And may we also, by God’s grace, become witnesses to that mystery.

In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Alleluia Amen.

Clay

Below are two versions of The Legend of the Dogwood.

In Jesus’ time, the dogwood grew

To a stately size and a lovely hue.‘

Twas strong and firm, its branches interwoven.

For the cross of Christ its timbers were chosen.

Seeing the distress at this use of their wood

Christ made a promise which still holds good:

“Never again shall the dogwood grow

Large enough to be used so.

Slender and twisted, it shall be

With blossoms like the cross for all to see.

As blood stains the petals marked in brown,

The blossom’s center wears a thorny crown.

All who see it will remember Me

Crucified on a cross from the dogwood tree.

Cherished and protected, this tree shall be

A reminder to all of My agony.”