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Jump-Start Your Day

Saturday, February 17th '18

All rights reserved © message by Kris Jackson

 

PICKING FLOWERS

"My beloved has gone to his garden...to gather lilies" (Song of Solomon 6:2)

 

First of all, everybody ought to have a quiet spot where they can get away from the rat race and honking horns. My beloved has gone to "his garden". It may be a literal garden with rose bushes, lilies and a little water fountain with goldfish. Or it could be a room walled with watercolor artwork, oozing symphony recordings or just a hearth with dancing fire. Either way the blood pressure needs a getaway. How else could my timeshare salesmen friends in Branson pay their bills? The heart needs a cabin by the river or cabana by the beach. Notice he goes to his garden to "gather lilies", to pick flowers. Why is it that wives would rather be given flowers than something practical like, say, a waffle iron? Beauty demands beauty. As the Shulamite girl in the Song of Solomon play pictures her espoused husband picking flowers she muses, "I am my beloved's, and my beloved is mine". Now obviously King Solomon wasn't a flower nut. He would rather be hunting big game on the Serengeti. But watching through the window she fathomed that every time Solomon picked a flower he was thinking of and picking "me". Something sweet is going on when an elephant hunter pauses and stoops to pick a lily.

 

Flowers at weddings, corsage on the lapel, bouquet at dinner, flowers on the parade float; FTD tells us to, "Say it with flowers". They speak to the senses, fragrant, lovely to sight, soft to the touch, pollinated with a pinch of gold, opening to light and warmth just like a lover's heart. Receiving flowers is nice but watching Solomon kneeling to pick them was the romance builder.

 

They say if you have flowers to give you need to give them while they can be enjoyed. Funeral directors gripe about the waste. At least a norma-croton can be taken home. The Magdalene poured spikenard out while Jesus was yet present. She didn't want Him to leave without knowing her heart. And Jesus had the table spread for His disciples the night before the grand goodbye. We call it the Last Supper. What it all boils down to is, kiss your kids before they go to sleep, tell Dad you love him before you have to rush to E.R. and a coma, pick your wife some flowers on a day when there is no special occasion. Change the centerpiece and you may change the whole mood of the house.

 

We come to know God better when studying the undergrowth. Look, at the wild flowers, purples, yellows and fire reds. What are these little violet looking blossoms? I'm on the west slope of the Rockies today but the grandeur of the San Juans above is no greater than the artistry of the lilies below. The stream is bubbling with the runoff of spring melt. Chipper chipmunks are chipping, songbirds are chirping. Oh forgive my imagination. I'm actually in a dim-lit motel room typing and outside the window there's frost. But flowers will bloom here shortly. They do every spring. Maybe that's the greatest promise in picking flowers. Cold earth yields to God's love. Dogwood branches bud, perennials press through the hard pan, dandelions in the yard make old grouches grouchy but give little boys flowers to pick for mommy or white tops to blow after wishes are made. If flowers make a comeback then you will too. Hope is not gone despite the loss. Petals locked away in winter's bulb are ready to pop, if not this spring then maybe the next. Jesus came out of the tomb in a garden. As the old song whispered, "Love grew where the blood fell; flowers of hope sprang up in sin and misery..."


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