Lessons from a Daffodil

One of the things we have been looking forward to this Spring is the daffodils. We planted a bunch last year, around the mailbox and the trees in the front, and in our back yard flower beds. And they are just starting to push vibrant green shoots through the hard ground. Spring is on its way. (And with the crazy snows of this winter in ATL, it can't come too soon for me!)

But, we were pleasantly surprised this week when our kids discovered a daffodil already in bloom. It is currently brightening our dining room table. And, as it sits there, beautifully unassuming, it is preaching loudly to me. It's message reverberates in my soul today.

You see, this daffodil is one we didn't plant. (We are still waiting on those to bloom!) Beauty often graces us with it's presence and invites us to delight in our un-deserving-ness.  My kids discovered it on the part of our property that doesn't even feel like ours. It was sitting outside the backyard fence, where the neighbor's dogs (like squatters) roam as if it were their domain. It is likely that it was planted by Jennifer's grandmother, as she made a habit of sticking cuttings and bulbs in the ground any and everywhere because she delighted in flowers so much. Beauty often springs forth in unexpected places, and is sometimes even more beautiful because of the contrast of its surroundings.

Selah. I pause on this, my day off work, to consider these things. Jesus whispers to me, "consider the daffodil." I have heard him say "consider the lilies" before, so this is strangely familiar.

The daffodil, like a skillful preacher, has offered the introductory points of it's sermon quietly, drawing me in. But, the crux of it's message sneaks up on me, completely surrounding my soul before I even knew it was there. And, it is for me. A fitting word, for me. (And, maybe for you today too. Who knows?)

It strikes me that this daffodil has been in that out-of-the-way place a while. There is no way for me to know exactly how long. For the last 10 years, this house has sat empty. And, for many years before that, Jennifer's grandmother was not well enough to be out and about, certainly not braving the other side of the fence where the dogs roam. My imagination clicks through different scenes, like time-lapse photography.

I imagine February, the year after that daffodil bulb was planted. Perhaps Grandmother Nash was waiting for it's green shoots to pierce the ground, like we are waiting this year for those we planted. It is a lovely thing to have someone waiting for your arrival. Perhaps she cheered it on as the green shoots grew. It is a lovely thing to have someone rooting for your success. Perhaps she smiled or even clapped her hands together when it finally bloomed. It is a lovely thing to be celebrated.

I imagine February, the year after Grandmother Nash died. The house sat quiet and empty. The daffodil had to push even harder through the leaves that hadn't been raked the previous Fall. And there was no one to cheer it on. February came and went and no one waited. No one celebrated. No one even noticed.

In my mind's eye, I click through snapshots of 10 years. 10 years of no one noticing. 10 years of vibrant green emerging from the harsh, brown earth. 10 years of bright yellow flowers bursting on the scene while everything around is still cold and barren. 10 years of brilliant artistry. 10 years of beauty. 10 years of solitude. 10 years of perseverance. 10 years of faithfulness.

And, I hear Jesus whisper again. This time, it is not a command, but a question. He is often doing that- asking me questions. He whispers to my soul, "What do you do when no one notices?" Selah. I pause to consider that today. Among other things, I am an artist, endowed with many public gifts. Gifts that people appreciate and celebrate. I tend to shine a little brighter, bloom a little more brilliantly when there are people around. My gifts come alive even more, it seems, when there are others to enjoy them. My gifts are for other people. I know that. I live that. I am happy to serve others with the gifts I have been given.

But, first and foremost, my gifts are for God. They are for the one Person who felt every moment of effort with the daffodil as it pushed through layer after layer of rotting leaves. They are for the one Person who delighted in the artistry of the bright yellow and green against the brown canvas. They are for the one Person who cheered, the one Person who celebrated, the one Person who noticed. And that is enough.

There will be seasons when no one wants to hear the songs you write. There will be seasons when your paintings are not hanging in some gallery but lying, framed in dust, underneath your bed. There may be years when no concert hall invites you to fill its chambers with your music. There may be months that you work and work without receiving even one "thank you." What do you do when no one notices? You bloom. You sing. You dance. You paint. You write. You serve. You work. You keep on doing what you were created to do. You push through the grime and the stench anticipating the applause of nail-scarred hands. Maybe one day people will notice and you will be on display, preaching the message formed in you during the lonely times. Or maybe one day, you will simply hear "Well done, good and faithful servant. You have been faithful over a little..." And that will be more than enough.