A Particularly Luscious Lily

In the months after our son was born, I would split my time between napping, quietly nursing, and bundling him in the carriage for long walks in the autumn wind. I came to refer to these times as prayer walks, because all the whole time, I could hear God whispering into my ear. A friend had given me a "study Bible" with footnotes, so I could finally begin to understand the puzzling pieces of scripture that had halted all my prior attempts to seek Him. In Twelve-Step meetings, I was hearing about letting go, about how God can’t put anything into hands that are clenched shut. Things were becoming a little less abstract, but they remained elusive – or so I thought.

Then there came a particularly memorable walk pushing the baby in his carriage toward the afternoon sun. I had spent almost all of the two miles muttering at God, complaining that He makes it so complicated for us to see Him and believe that He is real. Suddenly, I stopped and stared. A ray of sunlight had literally beamed itself onto something, and it drew my eye toward it. Before me, in the sunbeam, was a lily whose color was a deep persimmon red. Its color had a luscious, iridescent sheen that made me want to eat it.

God had shone a ray of light directly onto that luscious lily to show me He wasn’t complicated at all. Not a bit. Light off/Light on. Illumination. "My God!” I said out loud. "I get it!"