Brynn and I love dogwood trees. There are several of them scattered about our front yard. Spring mornings are a feast for the eyes. Velvety blossoms of white and pink and rose adorn the dogwoods, each one like the soft cupped hand of a child. I find myself wishing Renoir and Monet were still around. I’d text them, say bring your palette, Brynn will make you brunch.

The problem with dogwoods is they are brittle and frail. One violent gust from a Tennessee thunderstorm can easily crack off a bough. Every dogwood in our yard has lost a limb.

Not so with willow trees. Their supple branches bend gracefully in the breeze, like a lithe dancer flowing across a stage. Sometimes we are like dogwoods. We stand straight. We blossom. We brace ourselves against the storm. But when the wind of the Spirit is blowing I want to be a willow, gracefully bending to His will. Nothing could be better or more beautiful...