An array of colors frames the brick pavers: Yellow, orange, purple, blue, pink, red.
Each day they greet me, as the sun and I rise together,
and I emerge from my dark cocoon.
They remind me that I have the ability to bring beauty into the world.
For although Jesus may teach that the splendor of lilies comes through no toil of their own,
through the years, I have fiercely fought with my own hands
to bring a rainbow of color to a jungle of weeds.
This morning I walked to the flower bed and did what I always do.
I searched for weeds and pulled them out.
“Why am I doing this?” I wondered.
And I repeated the mantra I’m using these final days to convince myself
that I am relieved to relinquish the work I have invested with my whole being:
“It’s not my problem.”
Soon I’ll be leaving behind this place brimming with beauty,
entrusting it to the care of a stranger with no awareness
of all that transpired to bring life out of desolation,
who may not value my legacy,
yank the perennial colors up by their roots
and replace them with something new.
This garden is not my problem anymore.
So why do I continue to tend it?
And then it happened.
Right there on my patio.
I was popped between the eyes with a parable.