Out behind our house in the holler, just past where the mowed yard surrenders to sassafras and sumac, there’s a patch of trees that bloom before the world is quite ready for spring.
They come quietly. No trumpet-blare of color like the redbuds. No wide blossoms like the dogwoods. Just soft, white stars stitched into gray branches—like God took a needle and thread to winter’s old shawl and began mending it from the edges inward.
I didn’t know what they were when I first saw them. I figured they were just scrub trees showing off early. I almost missed the sermon blooming right there in my backyard.
But then one of my deacons—stood to share the announcements.
Now Mike isn’t one to waste words. He’s thoughtful and clear, with a voice that settles a room—not flashy, just steady and sure, like river rock. That morning, after giving the usual updates about the Wednesday night meal and the Annie Armstrong offering, he added something a little different:
“If you’ve been outside this week, you might’ve seen those white blossoms starting to come in along the fence lines and up in the hills. That’s the serviceberry—some folks call it the sarvis tree. It’s one of the first things to bloom around here, but it carries more than just beauty. It carries memory. It used to mean it was time for the preacher to ride out and hold a service for the folks who hadn’t had service all winter.”
And then he sat down.
He didn’t need to say more.
And that’s when I learned: the tree’s not just blooming. It’s remembering.
“You know why they call it the serviceberry?”
Back in the old days—real old days, long before Dollar Generals and funeral homes—the winters out here in the Ozarks could stretch on mean and merciless. The roads would wash out, the creeks would ice, and families tucked in these hills would lose loved ones they couldn’t properly bury.
Or rather—they’d bury them. But there wouldn’t be a preacher.
No songs. No words. Just a graveside wrapped in snow and silence.
But when spring finally came—real spring, not just a teasing thaw—the preacher would mount his mule, pack his Bible, and ride out to the remote corners of the county.
And the way folks knew it was time?
The sarvis tree was blooming.
“Time for the service,” they’d say.
“The sarvis is out.”
And just like that, grief got its voice.
The bloom signaled not just spring—but a sacred gathering, a remembering, a promise: This is not the end.
It’s a tree that bloomed for the buried.
A tree that didn’t mind waiting on the preacher.
The Gospel in a Grove
Now every time I see those white blossoms brushing against the gray sky, I don’t just see beauty. I see theology—sprouting, fragile, and fierce.
The sarvis doesn’t bloom for applause.
It blooms like a whisper.
Like prayer before breakfast.
Like tears before words.
It stands in the cold and says, “Even now, even here, something holy is happening.”
Some of those old-timers didn’t know a lick of Greek or Hebrew. But they knew how to read a hill. They knew the rhythm of grief and grace. And when they saw that tree bloom, they didn’t just see flowers. They saw resurrection coming.
They saw the world get stitched back together.
They saw that Jesus doesn’t just walk the shores of Galilee—He walks the backroads of the Ozarks, too, where cell service dies and hope begins to live again.
My Backyard Became a Sanctuary
I’ve got five or six of them out back. They bloom just a hair before the redbuds. And now that I know their name, I can’t stop watching them.
Sometimes I sit on the porch with a coffee and just stare out at those white flags waving from the treetops. They seem to say, “We remember. We wait. We testify.”
I think about the generations before me who buried their dead under gray skies, then watched the sarvis bloom as a sign that one day, God would call the names of their loved ones louder than death had.
And I think about the people I’ve buried—the ones I’ve preached over, and the ones whose funerals I’ll still have to preach.
It helps to know that before I say a word, the trees have already started the sermon.
God Writes in Blooms
We preachers like to talk. It’s part of the job. But sometimes, God gets the first word. Sometimes, He writes it in petals instead of paragraphs.
The sarvis tree reminds me that the gospel doesn’t always thunder—it often whispers.
It doesn’t always rush—it waits.
It doesn’t demand attention—it simply stands and tells the truth.
The truth that death doesn’t get the last word.
The truth that Jesus still keeps time with the seasons.
The truth that hope has a bloom-time, and it’s never late.
For Those Who Grieve
If you’re carrying sorrow right now, friend—if the cold of some long goodbye is still sitting heavy on your chest—take a walk out where the edge of the yard turns wild. Look for the sarvis.
Watch how it blooms quietly, without needing to be seen.
And know this:
Even your grief is seen by the God who made that tree bloom.
Even your silence is heard.
Even your waiting is holy.
The old folks didn’t have much. But they had eyes to see what mattered. They didn’t need a theologian to explain Romans 8—they had the serviceberry, preaching from the hillsides every March:
“Winter never wins.”
“Life will rise.”
“The preacher’s coming.”
“So is Jesus.”
Come See for Yourself
If you ever drive out to Cedar Ridge Baptist Church, way down the end of Y Highway in Stone County, come a little early and walk the edge of the woods. If it’s spring, you might just catch the sarvis blooming.
And if you step inside our sanctuary, and hear a well-spoken deacon like Mike stand and say,
“The serviceberry is blooming,”
you’ll know what he means now.
It’s more than a tree.
It’s a testimony.
A signpost from the hills that grief doesn’t get the final say.
Because sometimes, the trees remember what we forget:
The preacher is coming.
So is the Resurrection.
And Jesus still walks these Ozark ridgelines,
where even the trees know how to hope.
If you loved this story, you might enjoy my devotion on Psalm 27: When Strength Begins in Surrender.