When we started to have some warmer days awhile back, one afternoon while I was letting Chester outside, I noticed something on my patio that I didn’t expect.
You see, last year I bought a lily for Easter. They were selling them at my church in honor of those who had passed away during the past year, so I bought one for my mom. I don’t like Easter lilies, never have. Always associated them with death and dying and funeral homes and just don’t like them. But I bought one anyway. Like it was some rite of passage.
It looked pretty enough on the stage at church Easter morning with all the other lilies, but after that I brought it home, stuck it in a corner of the patio, and just left it there, not caring whether it lived or died. At least not enough to water it or protect it from the cold or the wind or the heat.
But I also didn’t throw it in the trash.
I didn’t even remove the cellophane wrapper it came in, so it was faded and falling apart. Leaves and debris from the summer, fall, and winter of my yard had collected in the container.
There was no sign of life.
Sad and pitiful, it sat all alone in the corner of the patio.
Like a Charlie Brown Christmas tree.
Until a few weeks ago.
All at once, it seemed, this sweet little bright green lily started to grow. Breaking through the leaves and debris, surviving the ice and snow, the wind and hail, the drought of summer, and with absolutely no help from me whatsoever, there it was.
It was one of the most beautiful sights I’ve seen in awhile.
Don’t get me wrong, it still looked a mess in the dilapidated container with faded cellophane, and it wasn’t as tall, nor had it bloomed. But the plant was alive, and still growing. In the midst of the harshness of the seasons, and my neglect, it had survived.
I thought to myself, so have I.