The one constant between the two historical residences of the Metro Detroit Price family is a yearly crop of peonies.
We planted neither set--the previous owners did.
But their trumpet blast arrival every May-June is a natural rite I have come to look forward to. These are a little past peak, but I am still happy to see them.
The white peonies have yet to bloom, but they look good for this week.
Nature cares nothing for the travails or strife of men.
But there is One who does:
If then you are not able to do as small a thing as that, why are you anxious about the rest? Consider the lilies, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin; yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. But if God so clothes the grass which is alive in the field today and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, how much more will he clothe you, O men of little faith!
Peonies grew in the garden of my childhood home, where they had been planted by my grandfather. After my mother died and the house was sold, we discussed digging some of them up and transplanting them in our new homes, but nothing came of it. I wish I had taken some of those flowers
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