I remember my affliction and my wandering,
the bitterness and the gall.
20 I well remember them,
and my soul is downcast within me.
21 Yet this I call to mind
and therefore I have hope:
22 Because of the Lord’s great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
23 They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
Lamentations 3: 19-23
I wished to wade in the trillium
and be warmed near the white flames.
I imagined the arch of my foot
massaged by the mosses.
This field immersed in gravity
defying growth. Green and glorious.
It let me know that out of the
soil came I, and green I shall be.
Whether an unnamed weed or a
wild strawberry I will join in
~Luci Shaw from “Spring Song, Very Early Morning”
The trillium only thrives where death has been.
The mulch of hundreds of autumns fluffs the bed where trillium bulbs sleep, content through most of the year.
When the frost is giving way to dew, the trillium leaves peek out, curious, testing the air.
A few stray rays of sun filtering through the overgrowth and canopy encourage the shoots to rise, spread and unfurl.
In the middle, a white bud appears in humility, almost embarrassed to be seen at all.
There is pure declaration of triune perfection.
In a matter of days, the petals spread wide and bold so briefly, curl purplish. Wilt and return aground.
Leaves wither and fall unnoticed, becoming dust once again.
Beauty arises from decay.
Death gives way to pure perfection.
During this Lenten season, I will be drawing inspiration from the new devotional collection edited by Sarah Arthur —Between Midnight and Dawn