Violet

In the storm it is—

Fight, victor.

Flee or freeze, victim.

But the violet….

Bittersweet—the bittersweet vine is victor, climbing and clawing its way to the crown of the tree, claiming. It flags out its red berries in triumph.

Tumbleweed—victim is the tumbleweed, the debris discarded into dust. Uneasily it drifts, here, there, in self-pity never certain.

But the violet….

Culture calls us to be either victim or victor.

Victor! The American I-can-do. Self-help. Protection. Security. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. You deserve a car, Jet Ski, the two-door garage suburb.

Victim! Self-pity. It’s circumstances, environment. The way I was raised. The way I was born. If I just had more self-esteem.

I saw a friend choose the road of victor this week and crash. I saw my own heart tendency to flee and freeze this week. In marriages, with children, with prayer requests before God, in big and little conflicts and decisions of life--victor or victim. Honestly, boil it down—the victim is just the victor in areas of defeat; the victor is just the victim in areas of success. They both operate from the same

seat

of

self.

But the violet….

Storms. Threats. Financial bills. House payments. Prodigal children. Illness. The victor comes out in us—we’ll weather the storm. Protect ourselves, lash back verbally, passive aggressive, stone wall to make them regret it. We’ll make sure the government gives us its dues, we get our own. We set out on Dave Ramsey courses and declare we are getting it together. Advise, nag, read all the self-help books. We take control. Teeth-gritted. Bittersweet vine.

Then.

Failure.

Victim.

Bow our head underneath the storm. Cower, appease, concede, withdraw in conflict. Throw up our hands, let others take care of it, wring our hands, fall into depression. Prayers cease in silent despair, truth is hidden underneath the rug. Shame. Guilt. Tumbleweed.

But the violet….

Violet valiant. The violet valiantly continues in faith. Neither triumphant-can-do victor nor fear-victim. Humble, the little purple heads look up to the sun even in drought and under the beating hail for she knows where her hope is. Lagging head in the drought, but still valiantly lifts a wan face up. Each pelting pouring beats head down, but valiantly lifts it again. Not a triumphant I-will-climb-to-the-top-and-conquer bittersweet. Not a blow away from the storm tumbleweed. The violet steadfastly remains in her quiet, humble position on the ground and perseveres where she is at. Faith.

Violet valued. The violet rests in being valued. Not a brilliant robed red and yellow garnet jeweled bittersweet that yet kills its host tree. Not a self-pity, inward turned ball of tumbleweed that bounces around in its own felt unwelcome. Not that she is much, not that her heart-shaped leaves and humble little flower are much. But she is in the garden, valued. So she shakes her quiet little head and steadfastly sends down her roots, right where the gardener has planted her. Loved.

Violet ultimately knows she is nourished, protected. Trusts. Not fight for herself from herself like the victor. Not flee or freeze in self-protection like the victim. The gardener knows. Cares. He tends. He shelters. He covers from the frost. He has planted her there for a reason.

Fight, victor bittersweet.

Flight or freeze, victim tumbleweed.

But fight and flight are not the only two options.

The violet—

In faith valiantly

she stands her ground,

knowing she is valued and loved,

trusting the Gardner.