There’s a huge empty field next to my church. It catches on fire every summer. I’ve talked about it before, but I don’t know if I’ve told you what happens after the fire. Without fail, the field catches on fire every summer. Without fail, bushes of Easter lilies pop up all over the field.
It’s a sight to behold, really. For most of the year, the field is brown. It’s unruly. It’s unkempt. It catches on fire because of summer heat or illegal activity. One summer, it caught on fire at least three times and a huge part of the field is singed black. The rest of it is as brown as ever.
Then, as if overnight, the lilies pop up. Sporadically spaced green bushes with white Easter lilies dot the otherwise ugly field. I always thought it’s God’s way of giving us hope. A visible reminder that no matter what fire we go through, there’s life waiting to blossom.
There’s a popular passage of Scripture about not worrying, found in Luke 12:22-34 and part of it goes like this:
Consider how the wild flowers grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you, not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these. 28 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—you of little faith! 29 And do not set your heart on what you will eat or drink; do not worry about it. 30 For the pagan world runs after all such things, and your Father knows that you need them. 31 But seek his kingdom, and these things will be given to you as well. (Luke 12:27-31, NIV)
A huge part of that field is under construction now. One side is erecting housing, and majority of it is being turned into four – FOUR! – baseball fields. My sister and I are talking about how ridiculous that seems since baseball isn’t a big sport in our community (soccer fields would have made more sense), but concede that anything is better than the abandoned, fire-hazard state it’s in.
“I’d miss the lilies though,” I lament.
“What lilies?!?” she asks.
I glance at her in surprise and tell her about the lilies that pop up sporadically, without fail, especially after a fire. She never notice them.
Most days, I never notice how God provides for me. I’m better and faster at worrying. I see the abandonment. I see the fires. I don’t always see the lilies. I don’t always see Jehovah Jireh, God my Provider, giving me exactly what I need in life.
It’s Holy Week as I write this and tomorrow is Good Friday, the day we remember the darkest of days when Jesus is crucified. A day of abandonment, of Jesus leaving this Earth, of God the Father forsaking God the Son. Yet, like the lilies that pop up in that field, there’s hope after the fire.
Jesus conquers death and rises again to be our way into heaven. To be our hope. To take away the worry of where we’d spend eternity.
Driving past that field one day, I mutter to God, “I miss the flowers.”
Then, the rains come. Thanks to the recent California rains, we’re in a state of wildflower super bloom. That field is neither brown nor green. It’s yellow. Well, there’s a lot of green grass and bushes, but it’s dotted with yellow untamed wildflowers. I even notice the construction crew stops working on that part of the field and is focusing on building the parking lot on a different side.
Perhaps I should have been more specific! I wanted the lilies, not just any flower. Still, the yellow flowers remind me of God’s hand upon my life, of His provision, of His presence, of His love so great He went through abandonment and fire to save me. To save you, too.
