A year ago my friend gave me this African violet. At the time it had lovely lavender-colored flowers. Eventually the blooms died; the time of colorful flowers had passed. Throughout the winter and spring, new leaves kept shooting up from the center of the plant. They started off quite small but soon spread themselves to receive sunshine. Other leaves died and were removed.
Recently my friend asked if the violet had flowers. I replied to the negative. She asked if any shoots were coming from the bottom. Again, no. My friend’s diagnosis was that the plant needed “medication.” Then it would produce all sorts of flowers. Of course, she jokingly said that the wrong kind of “medication” could force my plant to flower nonstop, and that would most certainly be harmful. “I’ll take the barren violet as it is,” I told my friend, “because it is still lovely.”
My violet may never flower again, but it still brings me joy. I like the green leaves; they remind me of life. The bends in the leaves remind me that not everything is perfect. The fuzziness of the leaves comforts me on cold, winter days. Yes, I do like my violet – even in its barren state.
My friend Nancy and I do a little musical act at The Forum, a nursing home and assisted living facility just down the street from our church. We pull out every Reader’s Digest songbook we own and have a heyday singing and playing the golden oldies from yesteryear. It is a joy to see dim eyes light up at the sound of a familiar Rodgers and Hammerstein song or tired heads begin to bob knowingly at a particularly witty Ira Gershwin lyric.
My husband drew my attention to an article in the most recent issue of 
He Remembers the Barren 