Wild Lilies Were Just What We Needed During a Time of Stress

Lilies of the Valley.

Today would have been my mother’s birthday. She was born in 1922, and I imagine it might have been a sunny day as all the irises are blooming this week and Mother’s oldest sister, Mae, named her new sister “Iris.”

Flowers were always a big part of Mother’s life, so it was not surprising that she wanted to share a special place with her daughter, some years ago. She drove me to Riverside Avenue West, along the Aroostook River in Fort Fairfield, Maine, and parked the car along the graveled edge just past St. Denis Catholic Cemetery.

Riverside Avenue.

I followed her down from the road shoulder to a small patch of woods between the cemetery and the next house. We stepped around a few grave stones that had apparently been forgotten, brushed away low-growing vines, and bent underneath trees. The air was warm inside our cocoon of forest, new plants bursting forth after a winter of dormancy, and yellow-green leaves springing from the young trees. Soon, we were surrounded by green and the drone of road traffic was only a hush.

Birds sang at every turn, yet I did not realize why we were here or what we were going to do. Then another low branch brushed against my face. As I pushed it back and tramped forward, trying to keep up with my mother, my nose caught a strong whiff of something almost like heaven. I inhaled deeply.

“Isn’t it lovely?” Mother said. “Have you ever smelled anything like it?”

I looked down and found the source of the sweet aroma.

“They’re lilies-of-the-valley,” Mother called out again. “My mother used to take me here when I was a child. I had forgotten about it for years, but then I remembered and wondered if it was still the same.”

I saw the top of her yellow kerchief, worn over her hair, bend low to the ground as she kneeled down, surrounded by a carpet of delicate white, bell-snapped flowers—escapees, no doubt, from the cemetery. I picked one and held it next to my nose.

Mother had brought a small container half filled with water. She and I placed our blooms inside. We worked in silence, creeping along the forest ground, standing every few minutes to gaze through the trees to see just how far this fair meadow went.

A few years later another spring came, and Mother was ill. She had many flowers decorating her hospital room now: pink and white carnations, baby’s breath, gladiolas, paint daisies, and purple asters. And yet, something was missing.

Old-fashioned iris from Mom's garden.

Passing by a garden one morning, I finally knew. She was missing our annual trek to the lilies. I carefully picked a few blooms and brought them to her room. She inhaled their fragrance for several long seconds and then placed her head back onto the pillow. “Thank you,” she smiled. “That’s just what I needed.”

Mother had taught me to depend on God and to appreciate how even the humble lilies are clothed with splendor. The small bouquet reminded us both that if He cares so for the little flowers—making them so beautiful and fragrant—how much more does He cares for us?