The other day, while walking along a familiar road, I noticed a little gathering of asters growing at the edge of the pavement.
They were tucked among dry grasses and fallen leaves, in a place where there was very little else to catch the eye. Their small white petals opened around golden centers, some turned toward the light, others bent low among the weeds.
I wondered how many days they had been blooming there. How many people had passed without noticing them. Perhaps no one had stopped to admire them at all.
And yet, there they were.
I have been thinking about that little patch of flowers.
How much beauty must exist in the world that no human eye ever sees? Wildflowers opening in distant meadows. Moss growing in the crevices of forgotten stones. Tiny blossoms hidden deep in the woods, flowering and fading without anyone ever knowing they were there.
And still, they bloom.
Their beauty is not diminished by the absence of an admirer. They do not become lovely only when someone stops to look.
They are beautiful because God made them so.
I think there is something worth remembering in that.
There are times in life when we feel much like those little flowers beside the road. When the world seems to pass us by, when we wonder whether anyone really sees us, or whether our presence matters at all.
And sometimes we begin to believe that being noticed is what makes us worthy of notice. That being loved by those around us is what makes us lovable. That somehow our value depends upon another person's ability to recognize it.
But the little asters tell a different story.
They were beautiful before I noticed them. They would have been beautiful had I never walked that road. Their loveliness was not waiting to be discovered, nor did it depend upon anyone's admiration.
The One who fashioned their delicate petals had seen them all along.
And how much more does He see us?
He knows us in ways no one else ever could. He knows the parts of us that remain hidden from the world, the longings we cannot put into words, the sorrows we carry quietly, the things we wish someone would notice without our having to say.
We are not more precious to Him when others admire us, nor less precious when they pass us by.
Our worth was never theirs to give.
I think I will remember those little asters for a long time. Such small flowers, growing in such an ordinary place, with no assurance that anyone would ever stop to see them.
And yet, not one of them was unseen.
Neither are we.