It was sometime around 1995 when my former next-door neighbor, Joe Fuller, gave me a nudge that would end up shaping the next season of our lives. We’d been living nearly ten years in our first home at Cibolo Crossing – a classic starter house that had done its job well. It sheltered us, gave us our footing, and served its purpose. But Joe, who was preparing to move his family to Fair Oaks Ranch, looked at me one day and said:
“You ought to think about moving into a larger house. This house has done its job. It’s time to step forward.”
I wasn’t exactly looking to move, we were comfortable. Settled. And frankly, it felt like a stretch. But something about the way Joe said it stuck with me. He wasn’t trying to impress or push – he just spoke the quiet authority of someone who had already made the move and knew what it meant to grow into a new season.
Not long after the conversation, Bruce Baker, a friend and a reputable local builder, approached me about a lot he had available. Bruce wasn’t just known for his craftsmanship – he was known for doing things the right way. He offered the lot to us at a reduced price. Even with the discount, it was a financial reach, but Carla and I talked, penciled it out – and then said yes.
Now, thirty years later, we can both say with full hearts: we’re sure glad we did.
That home, nestled just behind what is now the Currey Trail, has become more than a house. It’s where our family grew up. It’s been our base, our landing place, our haven. And Bruce? He didn’t just build a structure. He helped build a foundation for the next chapter of our lives.
What made the process so special was the team Bruce had around him. His sister, Brenda, was the interior designer, and she was a joy to work with. She made every detail feel personal. She didn’t just decorate – she listened. And her gift turned ideas into spaces that felt like home.
Bruce’s foreman, Larry, was steady and skilled – the kind of guy who made sure things got done right without ever making a fuss. He had that rare ability to keep a job moving without rushing the craftsmanship. You could tell he cared about the work, and he cared about the people living in what they built.
Their landscaping contractor was cut from the same cloth. Thoughtful, experienced, and wise. He laid out his vision for the yard – Japanese boxwoods to anchor the front, Saint Augustine grass to bring life to the lawn, crepe myrtles to color the front, and in the back, three oak trees – trees that now tower with shade and quiet strength.
But then came a detail I’ll never forget. He pointed to the spot just outside our washroom window and said, “Right here – this is where we’ll put a Mountain Laurel.”
I had never heard of a Mountain Laurel. He smiled and explained: “It won’t get too big. Won’t block your view. But for a week, maybe two, in March, it’ll give you the most beautiful purple blooms you’ve ever seen.”
We trusted him. And he was exactly right.
Every spring since, that little Mountain Laurel has held its promise. It sleeps for most of the year, blending into the green background. But then March rolls around, and for those brief days, it becomes the most beautiful tree on the block. Deep purple flowers burst onto the branches, and the air fills with the sweet scent of grape bubblegum – rich, soft, unmistakable.
And then, almost just as suddenly, it’s gone again.
It took me a while to realize the quiet wisdom in that tree. These days, I see it as one of the best teachers we’ve ever had.
That’s how life is. And that’s how leadership is.
Most days aren’t filled with big moments or applause or vivid color. Most of the time, leadership looks a lot like the Mountain Laurel in January-steady, green, quiet. Not trying to be impressive. Just rooted.
But then come the moments when people are watching-when decisions matter, when influence shows up, when your character is called forward. And if you’ve stayed rooted…if you’ve prepared beneath the surface…something beautiful blooms. It may only last a short while, but it leaves a lasting impression.
Some of the best leaders I’ve known weren’t flashy. They didn’t bloom year-round. But when their season came. They showed up with wisdom, clarity, and grace. They didn’t force it. They didn’t announce it. They just bloomed.
Spiritually, it reminds me of a verse I’ve come to treasure-Galatians 6:9
“Let us not grow weary in doing good, for in due season we will reap, if we do not give up.”
There’s a reason Paul wrote “in due season,” Not every season. Not right now, but in due season – in God’s perfect timing – the fruit appears. The bloom comes.
We live in a world addicted to visibility, we’re pushed to be in bloom constantly – to stay on stage, to always be producing. But I’ve come to believe that constant bloom isn’t the mark of a healthy tree – or a healthy leader. Real strength grows slowly. Real beauty shows up when it’s supposed to, not when it’s demanded.
That Mountain Laurel doesn’t compete with the oaks. It doesn’t envy the crepe myrtles. It doesn’t try to be more than it is. It just blooms when it’s time – and when it does, the whole yard pays attention.
I think God calls us to live the same way. Be faithful. Stay rooted. Don’t rush your season. And when your time comes, bloom with grace – not to impress, but to bless.
So now, every March, we pause at that window. We look out and remember Bruce’s leadership, Larry’s craftsmanship, Brenda’s gift, and the team that helped make that house a home.
And we give thanks for a tree that only blooms for two weeks a year—
But teaches us something every time.
The Mountain Laurel.
More from Stan Leech’s Faith & Leadership column: For another 1995 moment that pointed the road forward, read Maybe So. For the faith that frames decisions like this one, read My Church.
