I eagerly await the last hard freeze of the season when the cold, hard earth wakes up and leaps into spring with blooms that proclaim rebirth. It is then that I throw off my overcoat and wander around outside, astonished at the beauty surrounding me; it's as if I'm strolling through the Garden of Eden.

Things were not so astonishing when I lived out West. Southern California is certainly overrun with palm trees and bougainvillea, and the hills are very alive with the blooms of Magnolias. The Oaks are almost as tall and droopy with moss as if they were grown right here in Georgia. What they don't have, and what I missed so much each spring, were Dogwood trees.

What a culture shock it was when I discovered I was living in a state totally devoid of the beautiful four-cornered, white flowering tree that presents itself each spring for one reason only: to remind us of what Easter is all about.

There were no lightning bugs in California, either. On warm summer nights, I often gazed out my window hoping to see a little lightning bug flicker across the dark sky in search of his or her one true love. I marvel that California kids actually go through an entire childhood without once housing lightning bugs inside a Dukes Mayonnaise jar with holes punched by an ice pick in the top .

As the spring seasonal changes began moving toward Easter, I felt emotionally compromised as I ached to see azaleas and dogwoods on lawn after lawn mixed in with yellow daffodils and tulips. My soul longed for a glimpse of the flowers and trees of the Southeastern Low Country.

The exhibition of colorful azaleas and roses that blossomed in the Edisto Gardens in the small town where I grew up presented a living painting that is beyond my ability to describe. Monet would have been impressed. Countless dogwood trees and dramatic blossoms backed up each shade, hue and color of Azalea. It was a sight to see.

At Easter, all the area church choirs gathered to sing at the Sunrise Service held in the midst of the burgeoning gardens. The flowers, discerning their role in the planned program, managed to slash through the fog of early morning light to deliver hope to all those waiting for the sunrise.

Those folks not in the choir moved quietly up the hill hoping to find the best perch on which to listen to music and hear the message of hope. I remember watching them gather in the dark, greeting one another with a hug or handshake and a smile.

What a magnificent sight when the sun did come up. Standing on the slight incline we called a hill, I looked out at a spring bouquet of flowers that stretched over a two-mile radius, a perpetual mural. The official nod of spring that welcomed the new season was rich with the birth of flowers as colorful as Easter eggs that sprouted from grass as green as shamrocks.

Everyone sang, "Up From The Grave He Arose," "In The Garden," "On a Hill Far Away," and other familiar Easter hymns. Friends and neighbors in our town greeted Easter while the sun slowly yawned itself into the newborn day, God's other gift to humankind.

So there you have it, the reason I look forward to the last cold snap, the final week of shivers, socks and sweaters. No doubt I'll fret over the bulbs I put in the ground, and I'll need to pray for the survival of the already stressed out hydrangeas I bought on sale and planted in the side yard.

But in the end, I will rely on the things I learned during those chilly Easter Sunrise Services. I will depend on my early conditioning to fill me again with faith that our garden, as well as our world, will once again burst into bloom.

I will look for flickering lightning bugs outside my window, and when the morning comes, I will enjoy waking up to azaleas, dogwoods, daffodils and tulips.

Meanwhile, I'll keep on collecting Dukes Mayonnaise jars for my grandkids who may one day give their children the gift of catching lightning bugs on warm summer nights.