This past Easter, I bought an Easter lily. I love Easter lilies. Love the sweet aroma , the strong stem and glossy, symmetrical leaves.
Every year at Easter our church gives the opportunity to buy a lily plant in honor of someone who has “gone before” as witness to the resurrection. I bought mine in memory of my dad, who two years before he died “became one of those born-agains” he used to scorn (including, of course, me).
I had prayed for him for some 30 years before he came to the Lord.
So, my Easter lily was special. Once a year, that sweet aroma that spills out of the trumpet-shaped flower would remind me of hope. The hope of Easter–life triumphing over death, fully and finally.
The thing about these plants, though, is I never quite know what to do with it afterward. This year, I set the pot in my garden under the pine trees. I watered it occasionally, whenever I watered the other plants in that area.
The other day, I looked a bit more carefully at it when I watered.
The plant that, last time I noticed, was a sickly looking stick with no leaves, was now vibrant. Not only that–but two blooms were ready to burst open!
Three days ago, one did open. Today the second one opened. The fragrance fills the house. For of course, I brought it inside.
There’s even another small plant started–a baby lily, ready for next year.
Easter in autumn. Fresh hope as we head into winter.
“Winter,” in the form of certain stresses, challenges, and even threats, looms. But … here are my lilies, spilling their improbable fragrance boldly.
Whatever comes, God is reminding me to hold onto hope. Easter is ever here … not just in spring. Easter comes in autumn, too. Hope can bloom anytime, anywhere.