Of lilacs and longing

I’ve never been an envious person, but the winter of 2001 pushed my typical have-and-let-have temperament to the breaking point. It seemed that everywhere I looked, friends were buying new cars, remodeling kitchens and trading juicy tips from their burgeoning stock portfolios.

I, on the other hand, was experiencing my third or fourth wave of battle fatigue brought on by the vicissitudes of self-employment. It’s not that I didn’t want my friends to have so much good in their lives. I just wished a bit of it could dribble over the edges into mine.

This was the frame of mind I found myself in one April morning, when it came time for a trip to the grocery store.

It was there that I saw them, in the floral section by the front door. Lilacs. My secret weakness. My once-every-springtime indulgence. The botanical loves of my life.

Of course, I couldn’t afford them. Not one single stem. Every penny was spoken for, committed to gas and diapers and the most economical food that my coupons and I could unearth.

So this is what it’s all come down to, I thought. Ten years of dedication and hard work—not to mention that expensive college education—and this year, for the first time in my adult life, I will not be buying a single bunch of lilacs.

Envy, one of my least favorite emotions, gave way to the granddaddy of them all: self-pity. I shoved my empty grocery cart off in search of weekly specials.

Halfway down the cereal aisle, the light dawned. “Amy,” said a voice in my head, as if stating the obvious, “you don’t have to own the lilacs.” And somehow, in spite of myself, I got it.

Those flowers sitting in that supermarket were evidence of beauty in my life. Why did I have to take them home? Why couldn’t it be enough to bury my face in their full-bodied blooms, fill my lungs with their luscious aroma, and glory in the knowledge that I live in a world where lilacs exist? Why did they have to be mine?

In a way, it was simple. Everything God made, every example of beauty or happiness or goodness, was mine to appreciate, whether I owned it or not.

It was all proof of God’s love for His children—of Her expansiveness, Her attention to detail, Her solicitous care. So what was stopping me from unabashedly claiming other people’s good as my own? I realized: Nothing.

The neighbors’ costly second-floor renovation? An excellent example of young children being provided for. My sister’s high-paying new job? Proof that talent and determination are rewarded. A girlfriend’s expensive handbag? Just the shot of shocking red leather that had been missing from my day.

Little by little, I stopped assigning the good around me to the ownership of other people. I started accepting that if I could perceive it, it was part of my life too, and I could be grateful for it—for what it represented.

Wouldn’t you know it: Little by little, some of that good did dribble over the edges and spill into my life. But that’s the funny thing about ownership: Once you realize you don’t need it, it’s hard to go back.

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