I keep a garden because it keeps me. Every morning I step outside with coffee in hand and find that something has changed overnight — a bud has opened, a leaf has unfurled, a hen has left her offering near the fence.
The garden does not hurry. It does not check a calendar or compare its progress to the neighbor’s. It simply receives what is given — light, rain, soil — and grows accordingly.
Jesus told us to consider the lilies. He was not giving a gardening lesson; He was giving a trust lesson. The lily does not strive. The lily does not earn its petals. It is clothed by the Father’s hand, and that is enough.
I need that reminder. In seasons of waiting, in seasons of not-knowing, I look at the blooms and remember: the same Father who dresses the field in color is not indifferent to my heart.
So I tend my small plot. I pull weeds. I water. I wait. And I let the lilies preach their quiet sermon over me.
“Consider the lilies how they grow: they toil not, they spin not; and yet I say unto you, that Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.”
Say · Believe · Receive · Forgive
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