“Consider how the wildflowers grow. They do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you, not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these.”

Through even the most sweltering heat of day and the dreary quiet of the night do the lilies of the field grow. They hold a unique level of proud certainty in their color, yet in no way seem to make a prideful stance against the dullness of their dry and dismal surroundings. And yet, they blossom confidently in the spring and present their color like an eager sparrow bringing a first meal to a newly born chick. Truthfully, the hue of the lilies is neither too bold, as to overcome its surroundings, nor is it too faint to be overruled by the dullness of the decaying dingle it finds itself in. In moving simplicity, the Spanish cursillistas acknowledge the call of the lilies as they hum De Colores in a sweet summer scene. From field to field the lilies grow. And so in any situation, whether monotonous or magnificent, the lilies clothe themselves in their unique expression of color. Perhaps the lilies are a calling from the bliss of an unknown way of life in a dark, dismal world. 

And so, the lilies grow. The wind rushes through the field and the lilies respond with a simple dance. Unlike human beings, the lilies flow with the winds and, other than holding their given place in the ground, make no effort to work against it. At one point maybe a wild rabbit rests and brushes against one of the wild lilies bending it slightly and carelessly. And soon enough, the rabbit scurries away leaving the lily to slowly return to its natural state of rest; showing no sign that the rabbit had ever been near the flower, let alone ever existed. As in the nature of any living thing, the lilies of the field never truly change. They accept the whining winds that cause them to dance about ever so slightly and do not worry about the future animals that my rest against their stems because the lilies have no other duty then to simply exist; to simply be in the state of being. Could it be that such a soulless thing could contain the wisdom of life that every human soul desires to know?

Consider the lilies of the field. Slowly the lilies begin to bend ever so slightly showing an odd weariness that may be found in a tired and old, yet well lived, man. And as they bend towards the earth awaiting their eventual death, nature begins to invade their color with a deep, decaying brown. Ironically enough, the lilies bloom and grow from the ground and yet when they near the end they seem to show a desperate yearning to find death in the same ground that brought them life. And so, the lilies decay. Their beautiful colors fade and the winds seem to have a stronger influence over them. And soon enough, the last bit of color holds on desperately to existence as their fate awaits them. Casually, the final speck of color clings to life as the decay of death works its way through the blossom. And then, in one final instance, in one final inkling of a moment, the color is gone. And without hesitation the lilies have fallen to the ground in robes of brown, knowing death fully. For a moment in eternity the lilies were known, but what was the point? The lilies are no more. They have been forgotten. So then, if all is lost, what was their confidence in color? In some faint way, perhaps every soul on Earth finds an unsettling sense of familiarity with the lilies of the field. For it is written, “The life of mortals is like grass, they flourish like a flower of the field; the wind blows over it and it is gone, and its place remembers it no more.” 

Psalm 103:15-18