Luke 12:25-28, 31
“Who of you by worrying can add a single hour to his life? Since you cannot do this very little thing, why do you worry about the rest? Consider how the lilies grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you, not even Solomon in all of his splendor was dressed like one of these. If that is how God clothes the grass of the field, which is here today, and tomorrow is thrown into the fire, how much more will he clothe you, O you of little faith! But seek his kingdom, and these things will be given to you as well.”
Last Saturday dawned bright and joyous as my son Taylor and I loaded my sweet mother, soon to be 86, into the car for a drive north to Gibbs Gardens in Ball Ground, Georgia. There was not a cloud in the sky; such a relief after months of rain and cold, both literally and figuratively.
Every year I look forward to the daffodils. Usually I enjoy them privately on my walks through Sweetwater Park, where they make a brief appearance in the shadows of some forgotten homestead. These flowers were planted long ago by someone else with a longing for color, someone who, like their temporary shelter, has since disappeared from a place now empty but for birds and passersby.
A few years ago, on my 50th birthday, I discovered a miracle of daffodils. While making birthday wishes and plans I happened upon Gibbs Gardens online, and remembered vaguely a Southern Living article about the family of landscapers who created this oasis of beauty off the beaten path north of Atlanta. Not content to enjoy for themselves the benefits of their successful business ventures, this family has, since the 1980’s, built a labor of love which they share with the public from early spring through late fall.
Such a surprise, springing up in the “middle of nowhere!” In addition to the breath-taking views and landscape of the Gibbs’ home site, there are water lilies, a laughing creek, a lovely Japanese Garden, and literally millions of early, middle and late-season daffodils adorning the hillsides from March through April. To experience the beauty and fragrance of this jewel in the Appalachian foothills of Cherokee County is to remember joy and celebrate life.
Daffodils are my birth flower. They are that first sentinel of new life after long gray days of waiting; to me their blossoms resemble a cross section of our sun; core and corona glowing above bright green foliage. My own son walked with me through fields of these little suns, all releasing their fragrance into our atmosphere and blessing us with light and peace after so much winter cold lived one hopeful day at a time. I felt overwhelmed with gratitude for this daily bread, a cloak of warmth from the Father, extended through strangers I will surely never meet.
The shades of yellow carpeting the fields and woods of Gibbs Gardens reminded me of a little picture book most teachers of young children probably know. Miss Rumphius, written and illustrated by Barbara Cooney, was published in 1982, the year I graduated from high school. In 1983 the story won a National Book Award for Children’s Books. Cooney’s fictional character, Alice Rumphius, has a bucket list very familiar to many of us who have reached the criteria for the AARP mailing list. She longs to travel the world, live by the sea, and most importantly, do something to make the world a more beautiful place. Her story is based on a real person, “the Lupine Lady,” who scattered lupine seeds wherever she went, creating a heritage in deep blue along the coast of Maine to be enjoyed for generations.
Seeds can be nurtured indoors into seedlings, scattered by birds or driven by the wind; bulbs can be planted by people but they also replicate themselves, multiplying initial efforts. Considering the lilies of the field, they are joyful to behold, but dependent on the greater systems and cycles in place to survive and thrive. The roots tap into the nutrients produced by decay and death, the stems support and conduct the water that is life, and the leaves seek and harness the sun’s energy. The blooms entice with color and fragrance, serving their purpose in reproduction before they fade. Their colors are fleeting, but we cling to the glimpse of their divine in Renaissance poetry, or upon Monet’s canvasses, or in the pixels within the digital universe of our pockets. While each part has its purpose in survival, it is the whole of this fleeting creation that puts Solomon to shame and reminds us of the One from whom we inherit a love of beauty, for beauty’s sake.
The ever-present tragedies in our world of hatefulness, anger, hopelessness and loss are an infinite sadness, imposed by the deceiver, who is constantly seeking to destroy those who do not know their own value to God and others. We are privileged to share in the image of a Father who regenerates the daffodils in every lonely place, a spirit who sows seeds of life on the storm, and whispers in our hearts that our purpose is to bloom where we are planted, finding joy as we make the world a more beautiful place. While we have control over very little, we sow, knowing we will reap in kind. All that is left is to welcome the rain with grace, and to lift our faces toward the sun.
