The beautiful things beneath the heaven are like wildflowers met while climbing some hill in life. Blooming and fading and blooming again, changing their colors with the seasons. They hold out through the heat of summer, then yield themselves to wind and soil. They lie still in the frozen ground, as though dead, only to rise again — quietly, and yet unmistakably — lifting their heads into bloom.
Endurance. Fading. Patience. Hope. Every part of the cycle — even the parts we would rather skip — exists as though it were a calling.
Life is not a search for answers. It is something planted in an open field, responding to a voice from the heavens — existing (alongside Him) and blooming in answer to that call.
Yellow. Blue. Red. White. Each in its own color.