Taking Time to Smell the Lilacs

Not long ago, my sister asked me, “Didn’t it seem like when we were kids, lilacs bloomed all summer long?” I knew immediately what she meant and agreed wholeheartedly with her. When I was a child, summers were long and rich and good, and lilacs were always present in them. I never stopped to notice them; I never made a point of drinking in their fragrance. Their scent simply hung in the air, perfumed the sky, and took up residence somewhere in my treasure chest of sweet childhood memories. As a child, I had no sense of the comings and goings of the lilacs in my neighborhood; they were just there.

I remember, the summer after I graduated from college, walking past a bank of flowering lilac bushes growing near the parking lot of my apartment building. I think I smelled them before I ever even saw them. One whiff and I was again a knobby-kneed, freckle-faced girl standing barefooted in her mother’s backyard.  I buried my face in those blossoms and inhaled the sweet smell of childhood summer. Not knowing to whom those bushes belonged I clipped a few fragrant blossoms, took them to my apartment, and placed them in a mason jar filled with water. Some days later, after the first flowers had faded, I went back to help myself to some fresh blooms. Where once lavender blossoms had flourished, I found only rusted and shriveled remains. It was the first time in my life I realized that lilacs didn’t last all summer long.

Childhood goes by much too quickly, both our own and those of our children. One day is filled with the scent of lilacs and the carefree joy of running barefooted through a backyard sprinkler, stopping only to eat watermelon and allowing its juicy sweetness to drip down one’s arms. The next day, it seems graduation caps and gowns are packed away and there are student loans to be paid off, car repairs to be taken care of, and dear ones moving in and out of each others' lives. We move on, leave things behind, and accept responsibility. We witness decline and decay. We see life as it really is. We get busy, too busy at times to stop and smell the lilacs. Some of us become wounded, weary, and cynical.

We grow up.

And growing up is a good thing; it is one of the main objectives in life and far better than its alternative. We were not created to remain children forever. Responsibility is a virtue, one which parents try very hard to instill in their children. In the book of Ephesians, chapter four, Paul urged his beloved congregation to live a life worthy of their calling, to become mature—attaining to the whole measure of the fullness of Christ. Then, he said, they would no longer be infants in their thinking.

And yet Jesus said:

Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. I tell you the truth; anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it. Mark 10:14, 15 NIV

So what was Jesus saying when he declared that we need to receive the kingdom of God like a little child? Yesterday’s sermon suggested that followers of Jesus need both to become like little children and to grow up to maturity. Our pastor said,

As we grow older and more mature in our faith, paradoxically we become more childlike, recognizing our utter helplessness and dependence on God.

So many of the good things I remember from my childhood came to me not through my efforts; I can take no responsibility for them. I didn’t plant those lilac bushes. They were simply there. Gifts.

As I’ve grown and tried to accept the duties of adult life, I’ve often made the mistake of thinking that the responsibilities of faithful Christian living lay solely on me. These last few years have been ones of seeing how easily my plans can be frustrated and of realizing how futile, sometimes, my efforts can be. I have had to cast myself, childlike, before my Father and confess, “I don’t know what to do.” These have been years of re-learning this child-like dependence, of recognizing that every good gift is from above.

Looking for and counting those gifts has been a beautiful part of my re-learning process. And as soon as I post this week’s gratitude list, I’m going to go outside, bury my face in my lilac bushes, and inhale their fragrance into my lungs. Because lilacs don’t last all summer--at least not on this side of eternity.

Joining with Michelle and with Ann:

 

878. Ummmm.....

(Oh, if only you could crawl through your computer screen and smell them!)

879. Good conversation.

880. Successful driving test.

881. Graduates--Lord, keep them in childlike dependence on you!

882. College student/friend moving in and bringing joy to empty rooms.

883. Brothers and sisters in Christ.

884. God hears and answers prayer.

885. Mother's Day tea to support mission team.

886. Sitting outside enjoying a Mother's Day lunch with the beloved Swede.

887. Every flowering plant and bush and tree.

888. A job application.

889. Mother's Day love.

890. All those who ran/walked for life. Because cancer is stupid.