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Near what once was a narrow trail through my woods in the mountains, beside the piled stone corner posts where a cabin stood a century ago, what must have been a thoughtful lady planted a bit of Vinca. Other than an apple tree and perhaps a few daffodils, the Vinca was probably the only landscaping done there.

Now the apple tree is fallen over and near its end, managing only a few leaves each Spring to remind one of what once was. The old cabin is gone and except for the stones still outlined beneath a hundred years of weeds and leaves, a visitor would never know that this was once a home.

But then there is the Vinca that day by day, season by season, decade by decade has pulled itself, slowly and silently across the little meadow and up the steep slope as if to follow the trail to at last find where it leads. And as winter gives way to warmer days, the little purple flowers burst upon the mountainside for hundreds of feet, each new blossom testifying to the wisdom of the one who planted that first sprig and to the glory of the one who brings it back to life each year.