Garden of the Alps
My wife and I are fortunate enough to have friends across the globe. It had been awhile since we had visited with some of them in Europe, so we packed our bags the other day, and jumped on a plane to meet up with them. Before I left, I inspected my garden carefully, watered thoroughly, and hoped that all would survive my brief vacation in another land.
Just the other day, I hiked the Swiss Alps with some friends from Sweden, Belgium, France, Spain, Ireland, and a host of other European nations. To say the Alps were breathtaking would be a tremendous understatement. I had been there 20 years beforehand, and had remembered that I had tremendously enjoyed the majestic mountains.
Yet, when I looked out my bedroom window on the lake overlooking them, I was stricken once again by the hand of God upon our land. The Alps were certainly a testimony to the wonders of God.
As I was deep in conversation with Harri from Finland, I continued to notice a familiar plant out of the corner of my eye. We were climbing some of the lower regions of the Alps, and the vegetation was thick throughout the forested area.
My wife had commented earlier on how dense the plant life was, no doubt due to the rich, fertile soil and the abundant water from the melting snow. Indeed, the Alps compare to nothing else on earth, and I certainly did not expect to find anything growing here. Yet, there it was, a butterfly bush, a purple butterfly bush. And there wasn’t just one; there were countless small bushes growing throughout the forest.
Of course, there weren’t the yellows and whites, the pinks and reds that mankind has been able to propagate these past few decades. No, these were the native butterfly bush, and they grew by the dirt road, under ancient wooden fences, and in the picturesque Swiss homes that sporadically dotted the landscape.
But the butterfly bush wasn’t the only tie to my Georgia garden that I found growing in the Alps. I found waves and waves of native astilbe, giant white plumes of the shade plant. They towered above the native fern life. I waded into them for a closer inspection, and found that they reached almost to my waist in height.
My youngest daughter was about worn out from the hike, and I placed her upon my shoulders for a brief respite for her young legs. Britt from Norway handed her a handful of tiny native strawberries, and I had a taste, as well. I was delighted by their sweet taste. Hans from Germany picked some of the tiny wildflowers and placed them in her hand. Gelko, from the Ukraine, took photos of her against the native goats that roamed the countryside.
Of course, there were plenty of plants unfamiliar to me as we entered into the higher altitudes of the Alps, and soon, there were none at all. Yet, those that were indeed familiar were a surprise to me, and reminded me of how connected we all are across our planet.