There is a little flower that makes its way through a concrete walkway every spring we’ve lived in this home. The first year it passed itself off as a stubborn weed, because, of course, only weeds have the devilish talent of destroying pavement.
But one morning I awoke to the grand surprise of a delicate white crocus standing tall, dead- centre in the walkway. It was a brave choice for habitation, as the walkway is the route our huge compost bin rolls along towards the roadside.
I took numerous pictures of the gentle gift, and posted it with the tagline, “Crocus Conquers Concrete.” I thought the alliteration was clever. It is ironic that I describe it as gentle, since it literally broke through concrete to simply live among us. Since that first year it has brought forth progeny, and last year there were four crocuses.
Medieval Marian gardens have referred to the crocus as the “Penitent’s Rose.” I find this beautiful and appropriate, as they often begin their bloom during the season of Lent. A truly penitent heart, having the job of conquering concrete, might reflect upon the little crocus of my walkway and find a sign of hope for triumph.
The coldness of the stone, how it locks away the earth beneath it, is not unlike our human hearts when we remain inclined to self. There is something underneath, kept from the sun. There is something alive but kept cold and unnourished. Our hearts, cold to the love of God, become wrapped up in stone, but there is hopefully a seed still buried below.
The question to ask ourselves is how we go about emboldening that seed to burst forth, seeping until it finally cracks through the stone in silent beauty.
Lent, the time of the Penitent’s Rose, has passed us by. If we have had some small successes, perhaps that seed is nearly blossoming. Or maybe our Lent wasn’t quite as grace-filled as necessary. Not much changed in our day to day life. We did not find or make the times of necessary silence to be with God. I told you the crocus surprised me. It could not have surprised me if it had not worked silently in the soil.
I read recently that the devil works in noise. God works in silence. Christ rose in silence. Christ conquered concrete while nature waited in a hush. He walked silently in the garden, surprising Mary Magdalene after she discovered the stone, burst open. In the quiet of her mournful weeping she heard the voice of the risen Christ, calling out to her.
If our Lent was not a time of finding silence, perhaps it is important even while we feast in Easter. It is not too late to find those moments now. It might actually be the perfect time. How much silence was in the upper room as the disciples waited for their savior to speak to them after the Resurrection? How often did they sit and contemplate the miracle they had witnessed, and wondered what it meant for them? Even in their doubt and confusion, they contemplated. After that silence they were gifted with the gifts of the Holy Spirit, and only then went out to conquer the world.
Cardinal Robert Sarah, in his book The Power of Silence writes, "It is necessary to become silence. For, even before the desert, the solitude and the silence, God is already in man. The true desert is within us, in our soul. Strengthened with this knowledge, we can understand how silence is indispensable if we are to find God.”
My quiet little crocus blooms later than the rest of her kin, because she is fighting the cold hard stone with all her strength. She is determined and has to battle her own weakness. But she knows the sunshine is waiting for her if she perseveres. She knows she is meant to be beautiful and to be a sign. Christ conquered death in silence and strength, and our hearts too can still find the way to God this Easter season.