Happy Valentine’s!” my husband, Mike, said, holding my gift behind his back. I almost didn’t want to see what it was. Because for all the things Mike is—kind, devoted, hardworking—a good gift-giver he is not. That was something I learned early on in our marriage.
To me, a gift is a symbol of affection, a way to show someone how much you care about them. That’s why finding just the right present for someone thrills me. Mike? He hates shopping. Usually he grabbed something at the last minute.
One Valentine’s he gave me an obvious quick-pick: a candleholder and no candle! Other times I didn’t get so much as a card. Presents just weren’t important to him. Still, I felt a flicker of hope that maybe, just maybe, he’d gotten it right this time.
After all, we’d been married 30 years. Surely he knew by now that I loved flowers. I imagined him holding a single perfect long-stem red rose, or an exotic Bird of Paradise, or a delicate bunch of daisies. Nothing fancy or expensive, just thoughtful and lovely.
Mike swung his hand around and proudly held out his gift to me. My jaw dropped. No delicate pretty blooms. Just a terribly wilted, potted African violet. It looked like something from a sale bin for unwanted plants! This was my Valentine’s gift? Did this man even know me?
“Um, thank you, honey,” I said, forcing a smile. I handed him his gift—a platter of chocolate chip cookies that I’d baked, his favorite.
Not wanting Mike to see how upset I was, I turned away and put the scraggly plant in a bowl on the kitchen windowsill next to my vibrant orchid plant. Under the graceful arch of the flowering orchid, it looked even more pitiful. A true shrinking violet.
“I could have gotten you cut flowers, but they never last,” Mike said. “And this reminds me of the African violets my mother used to grow. You remember, right?”
“I do,” I said. For a moment, my heart softened. I had loved Mike’s mom. She grew the most beautiful violets. Then my resentment flared again. It was Valentine’s Day. I wanted a gift that reflected Mike’s love for me, not for his mom.
The next morning, the violet looked droopier, if that was possible. Part of me wanted the dried-out eyesore to give up so I could take it out of my pretty window. I stared at the sad little plant. Is this how Mike sees me? Sees our love? Old and wilted and nearly lifeless?
Just then a passage from First Corinthians came to mind. The love chapter. Love is patient, love is kind… It is not rude; it is not self-seeking. It is not easily angered; it keeps no record of wrongs. I felt a stab of guilt. At least Mike had tried.
So, I watered the darn thing. The next day, I fed it some fertilizer. The day after that, I inched it farther into the sunlight. It was so far gone, though, I wasn’t sure it would do any good.
But a month later that puny plant was surviving—thriving, even! Its dark foliage had expanded into multiple tiers. There were even a few violet buds.
“The violet really seems to like it there, doesn’t it,” Mike said, sounding quite pleased.
One day I was breezing through the kitchen on my way out of the house when something caught my eye. Framed by the wooden window, my once-wilted, sad-looking Valentine’s Day plant sat in the soft sunlight, its lush violet blooms as lovely as the orchid bending over it.
And it hit me: I had gotten the Valentine’s gift I’d longed for, one that showed the depth of Mike’s feelings for me. Like love, the violet just needed care, patience and appreciation for it to blossom into something beautiful.
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