The violet of God
At the time of year I was born the hawthorn sprinkles the previously bare hedges with living snow, and its florets, white as a feather falling from a dove in flight, caress the red-brown thorns on its branches. In certain Italian towns, they call wild hawthorn Spina Christi and say that the Redeemer’s crown of thorns was made of its branches, which, though a torment for the Savior’s flesh, protect the nests becoming full of murmurs and love once again.
At the foot of the hawthorn, a Lenten flower in outward garb and Christian in humility, the violet meekly exudes its perfume… A perfume more than a flower—a faint and yet penetrating scent, a humble and yet tenacious flower content with everything in order to live and blossom.
I would like to designate this life with the name of one of these two flowers, particularly the violet, which lives in the shade but knows that the sun is shining upon it to provide life and warmth. It knows, though it does not see the sun, and casts its scent, outbreathing its whole self in loving incense to say “thank you.” (Maria Valtorta, Autobiography)