Pansies, Periwinkles and Prayers

The flowers in our long planter box hadn’t been the same since our September vacation. They had gotten a little dried out, despite an occasional watering in our absence. Even though we watered copiously when we got back and tried to re-establish their lush blooms, the changing season seemed to be against us. Oh well, they wouldn’t have lasted past November anyway. I have always loved Vinca flowers, or periwinkle, their prettier name. They were a favorite of mine when we lived in Mississippi, tolerating the hot summers beautifully and lasting into November or longer. But these would have to go.

“Let’s pull them out and plant pansies,” I suggested to my husband. I had never raised pansies, though in the South they were very popular as winter garden plants. I would see their two-tone blooms of purple or yellow looking like little faces bobbing merrily in the breeze in other people’s flower beds. Their delicate appearance belied their hardiness and ability to withstand the cold. We got a couple of flats, and found their proper name is Viola. After ruthlessly pulling out the woody stems and scraggly stalks of the Vinca, we set to work putting them into the soft soil of the flower box. I’d forgotten how much work even a little gardening is and wished for a “garden seat,” a low stool on wheels to save an aching back or spare stiff knees. However, it was a rewarding tiredness I felt as I looked in satisfaction at our newly bright planter, stretching across the front of the house with spots of color.

In the language of flowers, the periwinkle stands for friendship. The shy little pansy represents “thoughts.” What a sweet way to think of flowers. In gentler times, people were aware of what flowers meant in the etiquette of relationships. There used to be a thing called romance, when attractions developed slowly with all the little niceties and nuances of courtship, and flowers spoke a language all their own. Period movies depict messages sent and understood by the choice of flowers. We still love to get flowers, but who sends much besides a bouquet of roses these days? Victorian hearts beat wildly, or not, upon receiving particular floral messages.

Thinking of the delicacy of flowers reminds me of the Bible verse in Isaiah 42:3, “A bruised reed He will not break, and smoking flax He will not quench,” speaking of Jesus in bringing salvation to the Gentiles. This was brought to mind Sunday in a message from our pastor as he urged compassion for the lost. He warned against taking a “holier than thou” attitude and treating sinners shabbily, or defending our stance in self-righteous tones. “If you do that,” he said, his voice catching with the gravity of his words, “ it had better be without a shred of pride. We must have genuine love and concern for their souls.” He entreated the congregation to pray that God would give us a passion for the unsaved. That kind of love is a language all will understand.