Flights of Fancy

I spent the weekend at home, affording me lots of time for introspection. Getting out of Milwaukee was interesting; we were delayed for an hour due to weather issues, but at least we weren’t canceled. Once we got in the air, we went through the clouds that had been delivering the rain/snow mix and broke into a clearing just above. It was breathtaking. To my right was the rainbow-like sunset, ribbons of color painting the sky with their deep crimson-azure-ochre stain. To my left was the moon, shining in all its brilliance, with the stars just beginning to pop out behind it. Below me was a carpet of ripply clouds. It was truly beautiful, and somewhat worth the long delay just so I could be a part of the transition from day to night. As my mind went over the events of this weekend, I thought back to a few summers ago, when I was home for a week, just killing time until I went back to Minneapolis and started a new job. I was suddenly transported to my grassy perch on our lawn, and remembered, in startlingly vivid detail, something I had thought of then…
My favorite flower is the tulip. I have always loved it for its simplicity and quiet gracefulness; it is just there, brilliant in color, blooming silently, not showy like the peony or fresh and perky like the daisy, but quiet, refined, beautiful simply because it is being exactly what it was meant to be: a tulip. I was outside in my mother’s beautiful garden, just letting my soul be fed by the majesty of the flowers blooming around me. The lilac tree was gently sending forth an intoxicating fragrance, a perfect backdrop for a perfect day. As I sat on the sun-warmed grass, breathing deeply of the lilac-lawn potpourri, I gazed at the tulips before me. There were deep red flowers with black and yellow stripes outlining the stamens; there were soft, pink blooms, waving gently in the afternoon breeze. There were regal purple tulips; deep magenta flowers with ruffled edges, hybrids and new shoots and greenery all around. I was enrapt. One of my favorite things to do is to sit and contemplate things that have always been there, but are the simplest, and therefore usually the most overlooked, things. Like clouds. I will lie on my back for hours, watching the clouds drift lazily overhead, wondering about how they are formed, how long they will last, where they will go. I think about how wonderful it would be to able to float on the clouds, and ride them wherever they went. Who would I see when I was up there? Could I bounce from cloud to cloud, or would I just stay on one and ride it until I could ride it no more?
Or trees. Often, when I am walking through the woods, I will stop to examine the leaves on a nearby tree. The veins that trace their paths on the backs of each are so perfect in their symmetry. If I listen closely enough, I can almost hear the liquid flowing down through the veins, gathering sunlight, and transforming the light into energy for itself. It is a beautiful symphony of nature, and if I am quiet and still enough, I can be a part of it, for just a moment. I hear the birds calling to one another; I see the verdant moss growing up the side of the tree, taking its nourishment from its bark, and giving its protection in return. I marvel at the symbiotic relationship that nature has, and praise God for His handiwork.
All of these things are in my mind as I idly dance my fingertips across the grass. It has just been cut, and its heady aroma mixes with the lilac in a pleasing way. My attention focuses on the tulips, and as I think about their genesis, I realize what a perfect allegory they are.
Tulips have to be planted in the fall, when everything is getting cold; the days getting shorter and the nights, longer. One cannot plant tulips too early, when the summer is waning, or too late, when snow is flying, or they will not bloom in the spring. Plant them too deeply, they will not get the proper amount of nutrients; too shallow and the squirrels will eat them. Although tulips are beautiful in their simplicity, they need to be taken care of, initially. Compost should be put around them to add nutrients to the soil; watch them to make sure that outdoor critters haven’t dug them up. And then the waiting, which for me was always the hardest part. I would want to plant tulips with my mom in the fall and then have them bloom right away. But I’d have to wait until spring. Snow would come and cover the ground above the tulip bulbs in inches of soft white insulation. The ground would freeze, and all would seem dead. If one didn’t know better, one might think that the tulips could never survive such harsh Wisconsin winters. Months and months of below-freezing temperatures; months and months of being buried in snow. What can live in such conditions? Finally, painstakingly, February comes. And then March, and with it, warmer temperatures and late snows that no longer last all the day. April brings the proverbial showers, washing away the stale winter and ushering in spring, a time of rebirth. We celebrate Easter in spring, and how appropriate that we do. Just as spring brings the little green shoots that push bravely out of the soil into the world and are born anew, so too did Christ experience rebirth when He rose from the cross. Spring is a time of rejoicing; we made it through the winter, hurrah! And then, softly, when it has been warm enough and wet enough for the right amount of days, you wake up one morning to find a little green growth over where your tulip bulb was. It is tiny, and fragile, and a late frost will kill it. But each day, it grows a little more, and then a little more, and then more still. One day, it is tall and strong, with a closed bud crowing its stalk. The sun comes out and the tulip slowly but deliberately turns its face towards the sun’s warmth, and suddenly, thoughtfully, it begins to open. It revels in its beauty, but not cockily or with pride, but with dignity, as though telling the world, “I am beautiful and I know it, but I was created to bring beauty to the people of the earth, that they may find joy when looking at me and enjoying my presence.” It offers itself as a gift, and expects nothing in return.
So too are human lives like tulips. Many people find themselves planted deeply in situations that seem out of their control; situations that feel like the death of an ideal and the lengthening of nights. They go through times when their hearts seem dead, as though in the chill of winter, buried under many feet of snow. They lie dormant, thinking their life is a waste. Then, as out of nowhere, spring comes. Their problems dissolve, or become more manageable. They begin to see the beauty and blessing of their situations, whatever they may be. They look back over what they’ve been through and see, with sudden recognition, that being planted deep with no escape meant a sharpening of character. The dead of winter was an incubation period where their souls and minds expanded to see the bigger picture. The snow, which once seemed so deep and insurmountable, melted to become streams of living water in their situations. And spring, the time of new life, was a birth of a wiser and more humble person. Just as the tulip overcomes many obstacles to bloom victoriously in spring, reaching, reaching ever higher for the sun, so too can people who come through their personal tragedies be stronger and better for them. How paradoxical that that which brings us so much grief and pain can also bring such strength and hope, but thankfully, it is true. The story of the tulip is the story of anyone who has ever been through something hard and seemingly endless, and has emerged, facing the sun, being warmed by its life-giving rays…
As the plane raced through the sky, I thought of the blessing of family and friends, and the beauty of nature. I had forgotten about these previous ruminations, but for some reason, they came back to me tonight. I am most blessed, and am thankful to God for His gentle reminders of this, every moment.