Some violets spared from the mowing. Royal wee witnesses of God’s favor. Photo by John
Keeping the yard of our farm house mowed is a constant occupation these days. Spring is bursting out with the quite heavy rains, punctuated with bits of intense sunshine.
When I mow I cannot bear to wipe out all of the violets who are raising their glorious heads high.
I must let several of the carpets of these diminutive flowers live to cast their beauty on yet another day. And as I do, I remember my dear mother and father. He would complain that the violets had a tendency to take over big swaths of our little Louisville lawn. But mother would snap back, “Those are my little violets, and I love them. So leave them alone.”
Through the ages purple has been the color of royalty, perhaps because it was so laborious to make out of tiny sea creatures, and, therefore, so expensive.
So-called “common” people could be fined for presuming to wear purple, and thereby try to rise above where their birth had fixed them.
So, I redirect the hungry blades of my John Deere LX-78 around them, and I think of divine, defiant glory. I think of my mother and of Mother Mary’s words in Luke 1.52. I think of the meek who shall inherit the earth, and of the Savior who holds them so dear.
In my present foreboding, shared the globe over, I look up from the violets and hear a voice saying, “Leave them alone. I love them.”
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