Where The Wildflowers Grow
beauty blossoming because of grace
By: Brooke Nichols
This article is part of the Claritas fall 2024 issue, Margins. Read the full print release here.
I dreaded my 10:10 financial accounting class. The intense competition among classmates made the atmosphere thick with tension. For a full hour and fifteen minutes, the stress was palpable. The thought of escaping to the wildflowers across the street often distracted me from the lecture. So much talk about credit and debit – how could the Professor expect me to pay attention to that?
The wildflowers were my safe space. They were so beautiful. The vibrant yellow, red, and purple hues were all a radiant display of beauty that the world loves. Sometimes, I wish the world would look at me with that same admiration. But since it doesn't, I settle for the passing glances I get when I sit near the flowers.
* * *
Leaving my class the other day was different. The air in my lungs felt condensed as I heard a high pitched beep of a construction machine pierce my ear. Quickly glaring across the street, I saw the wildflowers pinned beneath a steel roller. Why were they building a walkway right there? Right over the flowers!? The sweet williams, the black eyed susans, and the forget-me-nots: All crushed.
Carefully crossing the street, I stood motionless before the site. Everything around me faded into a soft blur, but before I knew it, the stillness broke, and I found myself rushing towards the site’s fence.
With the tip of my sneaker wedged into one of the fence's small metal holes, I gripped the top of the fence with my unkept nails and shouted, “Do you not care about the life you are killing? The flowers will die!” I began to rock the barrier back and forth, but with each sharp movement, strands of my brittle, frizzy hair whipped into the narrow metal crevices, catching and pulling out small pieces.
Suddenly overwhelmed with embarrassment, I realized how dramatic I looked. The people around me saw exactly what they always saw: a crazy girl with whom no one wanted to be friends. A crazy girl who doesn’t know how to do financial accounting. A crazy girl who doesn’t match the ideal image guys seem to prefer. They could only see the outside, but on the inside, it felt like my heart was ripped out of my chest and placed, with the wildflowers, under the steel roller. So to me, my response was appropriate. But to them, I was a freak.
Afraid to meet the stares around me, I quietly stepped off the fence and sank into the damp grass below. My legs stretched out in front of me, lightly touching the cold metal as I let my back curve into its familiar slump, no longer making an effort to straighten it. With tears blinding my eyes, I could only make out blurred glimpses of what would soon be gone forever—the flowers, my place of comfort, and the beauty I had so desperately wanted to claim as mine. If society didn’t care enough to keep the flowers, how much less do they care for me?
As I sat there and reflected, I realized that those men didn’t hate me, they were just doing their job. The people walking past will forget. The people in my financial accounting class are likely just as confused as I am. How self-centered must I be to think everyone around me is actually thinking about me? How prideful must I be to constantly steep myself in a pool of self-pity?
* * *
A few weeks ago, I had experienced a moment that should have changed everything. How forgetful must I be to completely overlook the man who saved my life just a short time ago? That man loved me! Oh how he loved me.
I remember I had my hood up that day. My acne was flaring up, and I was self-conscious. I kept my head low and continued to stare down at the constant Instagram feed of gorgeous models. A large truck’s dull light entered my peripheral vision until I felt an abrupt push from behind. I heard the tires squeal and smelled burnt rubber as my knees collapsed before me. My face hit the ground, and everything was black until a strange yet somewhat familiar voice spoke.
The screams, crying, and ambulance siren were all muffled, but I could hear this man clearly. Although my brain couldn’t fully comprehend what he meant in the moment, his words were like a double edged sword that pierced my spirit. With his voice cracking and coughing blood, he said: “Why are you anxious about clothing? Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin. But if God so clothed the grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven, will He not clothe you much more?”
It felt as if his words pulled me from darkness. My head throbbed from the impact with the pavement, but I forced my swollen eyelids open. Through blurred vision, my burning eyes met those of a stranger. His warm gaze offered a sense of comfort amidst the confusion. His golden skin seemed to glow, even with the dirt and gravel clinging to his face.
A massive blue truck crushed his body as he gently lifted the corners of his mouth, attempting a soft smile. It was a bleak scene, yet his love radiated through it all, not just in his sacrificial act of pushing me away from the truck, but even more in the quiet joy of his smile afterward. It was as though he was happy to have given his life for mine. And yet, he was a stranger. Why would he die for me?
* * *
Sitting next to the fence, I shivered as the wetness of the grass began to seep into my jeans. How could I have forgotten this moment so soon after it occurred? This man cared enough to give his life for mine, yet I had brushed aside his sacrifice as if it meant nothing. Though I was grateful, I found myself falling back into old patterns: I was wallowing in self-pity and concerned with not measuring up to worldly standards. Back in my dorm, I’d turn to makeup tutorials, hoping for a transformation that my dollar-store foundation never delivered. It became a constant cycle—I would put it on only to smear it off minutes later with a crumpled lunch napkin, the paper softened by tears. Since the makeup failed me, I’d resort to wearing lowcut v-necks as a desperate attempt to please man. However, I was never able to analyze their approval because I couldn’t bring myself to meet their eyes. I always avoided eye contact, as if meeting someone’s gaze would reveal too many of my imperfections. But with hot tears still streaming down my face and mud all over my jeans, I decided it was time to go home.
Over the next few weeks, as they completed the walkway, I was reminded of this man’s words every time I stepped out from my 10:10 class. The wildflowers were gone, but his words remained the same, as I could still “consider the lilies.”
Although I couldn’t grasp the meaning of his words that day, their significance began to unfold in the days that followed. Meditating on his message, I began to notice a shift in the way I walked. My shoulders seemed to pull back, as though a string were gently lifting them, replacing the usual slouch they’d been accustomed to. I felt less compelled to keep my hood up so often and was less intimidated by the idea of meeting another person’s gaze. In fact, there was one moment when I held eye contact with a girl long enough for her to flash me a warm, sweet smile. However, it wasn’t until I noticed something else, where the wildflowers had once been, that everything clicked.
* * *
From a distance, I saw a small white blur hovering over the dark sidewalk, still damp from the recent rain. My feet moved before my brain as I rushed toward it. As I drew closer, the little white blur began to reveal itself as a cute white flower, growing between the cracks of the concrete.
For so long, I wanted to make my life look perfect on the outside, just like those wildflowers I loved. I craved the admiration others showed them, the way people would stop to look and appreciate their beauty. I wanted to be seen like that. But now, here was this lone daisy growing quietly in the concrete, a simple, overlooked flower thriving where it normally shouldn’t. It wasn’t flashy or drawing anyone’s attention, but it was beautiful in a modest, unassuming way. This daisy showed me that there’s a different kind of beauty, one that doesn’t need to be noticed or validated by man to be real. A beauty that doesn’t rely on high coverage foundation or lowcut v-necks, but rather on quiet confidence. Unlike the “grass of the field, which today is alive and tomorrow is thrown into the oven,” this daisy revealed a beauty that endures, a beauty that doesn’t vanish with passing seasons or due destruction. And it was growing in an environment meant to stifle its growth. Yet there it stood, quietly thriving against all odds.
I finally understood that this Man, this Savior, was trying to teach me that I need not be so consumed by the pursuit of outward beauty or the world’s approval. With His words: “Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin,” I realized that just as God clothes the lilies and grasses with splendor and life, He has clothed me with a beauty that goes far beyond anything I could construct for myself. My value doesn’t come from my appearance or from man’s praise; it is a worth that’s appointed by God that is more precious than rubies. It’s not charm or external beauty I should be striving for, but rather a fear for the Lord, because a woman who fears the Lord is to be praised.
I can’t help but shout and sing for joy. This small flower in the crack of concrete helped me realize the hope I have for the second chance at life I’ve been given. The praise from the world was like a thief that tried to steal my joy, kill my hope, and destroy me forever; but my Savior came to give me life, and a life that’s more abundant. By grace, I’ve been given the opportunity to be a flower growing in the midst of concrete because of a Man who gave His life for me.