A flower's beauty lasts but a moment, just long enough to convince passing birds or insects to collect and spread its pollen. There is purpose in beauty and beauty in purpose, but the flower itself is unaware of both. It does what it was made to do, what it was intentionally and purposefully designed to do.
Will anyone notice its beauty? Will the pollen it shares be put to good use? Will it do what it is supposed to do before it fades and withers? These are questions it does not ask. It does not wonder why it exists or what it should do. No, it wonders at the morning dew that quenches its thirst, at the warm sun towards which it opens and reaches, and at the rich dark soil on which it feeds.
The flower lives in wonder at all the ways in which the Creator gives it life, and it is but one such creature thus sustained. Perhaps I will find more purpose in this life by wondering that I exist rather than wondering why I exist. Life is proof of purpose, mysterious though that purpose may be.