CONSIDER THE LILY

thin yellow lily

stealing scratches of sun space

framing cobalt lake

In Northern Michigan lilies grow abundantly in July: outlining orchards, framing farms, running riotous in Garden Walk Gardens. But ours, along the deck edge, are always just a little later, patiently waiting for the sun to find a path through the pines.

Consider how the lilies grow

They do not labor or spin. Yet

I tell you, not even Solomon in all his splendor

was dressed like one of these.

Luke 12:27

I spend way too much time meandering through my mind searching out meanings and metaphors; answers to deep questions: What is my purpose? Why do I weep? Is there a way out of this morass?   I keep waiting, not very patiently, for some message of mission.  Maybe, learning from the lily, I should quit laboring and spinning and turn toward the light, abiding in God’s splendor.

In her poem, “The Lily,” Mary Oliver wonders if the lily talks in “lily language” at night but decides it must patiently stand until the moon:

“becomes the golden sun –
as the lily absolutely knew it would,
which is itself, isn’t it,
the perfect prayer?
(Mary Oliver, from Why I Wake Early, 2004)

Perhaps my own prayer is hidden in the lily: a contemplative turning to the sun of my soul.

MICHIGAN SUMMERTIME

Growing up we drove up north for a one week summer vacation. Whether it was a tiny cinder block rented cottage or a tent plopped on a state park plot, it was always someplace in northern Michigan. When I became a teenager I began to resent this trip big time. My best friends were off to exotic sounding Francestown, New Hampshire or a dude ranch in the Grand Tetons. One friend traveled to so many states, her family had a U.S. map with all their routes neatly colored in and dated. I never left Michigan.

My mother spent the week cleaning the cottage, making sure there were no germs on the dishes or sand in the saggy spring beds. Dad looked for good fishing spots. I looked for a quiet solitary place to read. I missed more than I would like to admit. I vowed that my children would see the U.S.A., trips to mountains and sea shore and lots of dated routes across our states map.

Even with all those adult vacations elsewhere, the north, especially the shoreline of Lake Michigan, drew me back. I realized I had savored sweet moments between chapters of Janet Lambert and Rosamond du Jardin. I do remember walks in the ankle high “creek” connecting Silver Lake and Lake Michigan, the dunes surrounding it pristine and quiet, the shore of Lake Michigan guarded by another sentinel, the Little Sable Pointe Lighthouse. I skipped the Traverse Bay waves again at sunset. I repeated the ritual of rolling Dad’s fresh perch around in my mouth, checking for errant bones, bread close at hand. Northern Michigan always seeped inside me, showing no resentment for my teenage rudeness. The shoreline sings. The white pines whisper. The wildflowers bop and bloom. The chickadee welcomes me home in any season. I am blessed.