I woke up thinking again about flowers. Planning for them, calling one more nursery to try to find what I can’t find, planting them, cutting and giving them. And then I remembered it is Holy Week and oddly my mind keeps drifting to this: do I bring the Risen Lord flowers anymore? My eyes returning again and again to what’s blooming now behind our home, I think about the little wild daffodil, what the English call the Lent lily.
I will bring you heaps of them, Lord, and lay them at your feet. A thank you for new life all around and, astonishingly, in me because I decided for you a long time ago in the question of Liar, Lunatic or Lord?
It is impossible to make a liar or lunatic of you in the majesty of a sunset. When a rainbow paints the sky. In the newness and beauty of a baby nursing at a mother’s breast. In the incomprehensible appearance of joy in the middle of heartbreak and loss. When we find grace to lean in to love rather than walking through the door. When hope triumphs over brokenness or tragedy like new shoots through cold, hard ground.
The evidence all around and through and in our lives testifies for you. I regret that most days I don’t ascribe to you the glory you deserve. This day, I’ll sing to you in flowers.
Revelation 5:12–In a loud voice they were saying: “Worthy is the Lamb, who was slain, to receive power and wealth and wisdom and strength and honor and glory and praise!”
