Not long ago, I stood reflecting at the edge of a once glorious iris bed, now a tangle of drooping stems and withered blooms.

Just weeks earlier, it had been a parade of purples, yellows, mauves and whites all dressed out in velvety hues. Although the bed had been punctuated by some unwelcome weeds and pop-up grasses, the array of iris splendor exhibited a celebration of spring that felt too beautiful to end. I couldn’t help but feel a sense of melancholy.

I felt disappointed that show was over so quickly and had entirely lost its beauty as the flowers faded away.

The iris is not alone in its fading. Previously, the lilac bushes breathed their soft fragrance into the world and then gave way to the bloom of azaleas. As it typically goes, azaleas bow to iris, iris to peonies, and later on the lilies arrive. Each flower rises in its own time, then eventually retreats again to the quiet Earth.

The pattern follows a rhythm which ascends in flamboyance and prominence, makes a statement, then retires aligned with a letting go. Although each observer and every gardener expect this, it still stings to watch the beauty slip away.

Scripture speaks to this impermanence with blunt but beautiful clarity in Isaiah 40:8, “The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God will stand forever.” Peter says it this way in the New Testament: “All flesh is like grass and all its glory like the flower of grass. The grass withers, and the flower falls, but the word of the Lord remains forever.” 1 Peter 1:24-25.

These verses point us beyond the cycle of life and death, beyond fading hopes and wilted expectations, to something eternal, God’s promises, which endure. The lens through which this occurs, “Having purified your souls by your obedience to the truth for a sincere brotherly love, love one another earnestly from a pure heart, since you have been born again, not of perishable seed but of imperishable, through the living and abiding word of God.” 1 Peter 1:22-23.

As a food pantry director, I often walk with people through seasons of withering. Some are facing a lost job or an emptied refrigerator. Many lives are spun off course by the onset of unexpected illness or grieving the death of a loved one.

Their spring, their bright season, seems far behind them. I can’t help but think how many of us feel this same quiet ache. Its source emanates not only from weakness or hunger of the body, but emits from an emotional emptiness and results in a questioning of purpose and identity.

This ache echoes profoundly in a mother’s life when her children grow up and leave home. She has poured herself out in peanut butter sandwiches, scraped knees, sporting events, late-night talks, and morning routines.

Then one day, silence. The nest empties, and with it, the rhythm that once gave her life shape changes. She is proud, yes, but also adrift. What now?

The iris droops, drops, and fades. But that is not the end of the story.

Every garden, every life, holds the possibility of reseeding. The fading flower makes way for something new to grow if we are willing to plant. As elders, as parents, as mentors and neighbors, we are stewards of a legacy that does not end with us. We are responsible not just for what we have done, but for what we pass on.

I believe that now more than ever we must invite the next generation to grow into their purpose by showing them ours. The work of feeding the hungry, comforting the isolated, advocating for the unseen, this work needs hands. And more than that, it needs hearts that understand the deep satisfaction of serving others.

What would happen if, instead of fading quietly into the background, we chose to bloom one more time by bringing our children and grandchildren alongside us? Stand with them not just as spectators, but as apprentices in the garden, in the kitchen, at the food pantry, in the neighborhood. What if we made service not just a task, but a shared experience?

This is how legacies are built, not through speeches, but through actions and service. Entrust an inheritance to others not just through instruction alone, but through participation.

Let them carry the boxes. Let them see the faces. Let them feel what it means to be needed and to meet that need. Teach them by doing, by caring, by getting their hands into the soil of the world’s hurt and helping something beautiful grow again.

The flower fades, yes. But the garden does not die. If we plant new seeds, seeds of compassion, of responsibility and of hope, the bloom will come again. It may look different, but it will be no less beautiful.

Let us not mourn the fading season. Let us find in it our next calling which is to raise up those who will carry on, who will water the ground we once tended, who will serve in ways we can only begin to imagine.

The flower fades but the Word endures. The work continues if we pass it on.

Janet Mills is the director of Cassville Pantry, located at 800 W. 10th St. in Cassville. She may be reached at cassvillepantry@gmail.com or 417-846-7871.