I love the day the purple violets spring up all over the forest behind my house or in the stretch of rocky grass beside my garage. I remember collecting bouquets of violets as a child. The sun set in the woods by the creek of my childhood, and violets covered the pathway alongside bright green moss. I loved how small and fragile they were, yet how bright and purple. They held their own and made a statement as powerful as the tall oaks rising all around them.
I remember how the violet doesn’t want to be an oak tree. The violet shines as a violet. Perfectly designed, perfectly positioned, and perfectly cared for by God.
Is the violet jealous of the oak tree? Does it wish to be moss or the creek?
I consider the beauty of the violet, small and perfect in that vibrant life on the forest floor. Here, there’s moss and the sound of a creek rushing by. Here, it’s cool and shaded. Picturing the perfection of violets reminds me to love my life as it is, where it is, and how it is.