If Roses Could Talk

I opened the back door to let the dog outside. Before returning inside, my eyes glimpsed a flash of color, tinges of pink in the midst of jungle-green raspberry bushes. On closer inspection, creamy center, petals edged with ribbons of coral pink, unfurling in the middle of rambling bushes. How can this be? Husband forgot to trim this section of garden. Announcing its presence in early morning dawn, birds singing the world awake, I stooped down and inhaled the rich fragrant scent. Hypethral bloom, against all odds, triumphant entry into beautiful. This double-delight flower, Rose Festival award-winning bush I bought many years ago on expert advice, weathered storm of neglect, postured itself against crowding bushes and staked its claim of rightful place in my garden. Perseverance, roots that dig deep, grace unfolding. I did not expect to see a single petal on my double-delight. And trudging through season of pain, uncertainty, wondering why the Kardashians were on the cover of People, doubts clashed against my journal of gifts, now tattered around corners, a joyful tatter. Hope grew thin as a sliver. And I did not let on to my husband that I feared for the plant, for my favorite summer flower. Retrieving red shears, I cut long thorny stem, carried it into the house and  placed it in a crystal vase. Max Lucado said: "Plant a word of love heart-deep in a person's life, nurture it with a smile and a prayer, and watch what happens." Glancing at the single flower, I pondered what this rose bush would say if it could talk. Truth evolving in daily routine, in gardens, in schools and work. Syllables clanging, soaring with validity, growing stronger with meaning because if this rose could really converse I know what it would say.

"You're planting roots heart-deep. That is why you noticed me, why your eyes caught mine in sea of green. I was but one face in a thousand, yet with laser vision you saw the beautiful." Like a kiss from heaven, a hymn, this rose told me what I needed to hear. Watch in the ordinary, thank you planted on lips, it is enough for now. 

One Thousand Gifts

He walked through the front door, trotted right past me, proceeded steadily toward dining room, this grandson of mine. "Eeeh," he said, and raised palm upward. Brother followed behind, stopped and tilted blonde head toward point of interest. "Yaya," he asserted. Quickly lifted palm high in the air. Tiny twin dimpled hands saluting ceiling fan, or maybe a praise. We turned on the switch for the fan, lights brightened the room. Their gazes, immersed in scientific wonder, of light and movement, simplicity of it all. This is routine. This is what they know. We taught them how to operate the remote for one of our ceiling fans. Plus, I tutored them on the necessary high-five. I thought about this early habit of theirs this past week. About the familiar, how it feels cozy, comfortable, safe even. But what happens when our spiritual GPS gives us an incorrect route? Or we can't hear steady voice announcing "re-calculating, re-calculating." We're left lost, broken, confused.When habits begin to hurt, and our souls enlarge but head reclines on the sofa watching re-runs of Seinfeld. A few weeks ago I jotted down #1000 in my journal: tried a class at the gym, no good, left after 10 minutes, sneaking out door. Ran into a gymmie friend in locker room--her husband died the day before, tears spilled, words tumbled out, she talked, cried, talked. I listened. We hugged. Earth did not shake after ink met paper. Clouds did not break open and spill fish. My On-Point pen looked the same. Seconds passed. Tick. Tick. Tick. A supernatural epiphany took hold of pen: one thousandth grace was life, doing life, hard life, the beautiful gift of life. And saying thank you for the wonder of it all. During these past months, through pain, uncertainty, and yes joys of life, I believe God orchestrated it all, knowing assuredly that eyes would open to see. Pry open from dubious squint. My spiritual GPS wasn't broken, it needed new batteries. A new source of power. Helen Keller wrote: "God is the light in my darkness, the voice in my silence." When twin boys raise palms in the grocery store, in our home, toward nothing in particular, I like to believe that their spiritual eyes are soaking up everything, like those elfin toy sponges that morph into cool animals.  I ran across a quote today by an unknown author: "Worship is the highway of reverence and washes the dust of earth from our eyes." I like that. One thousand hallelujahs and more to come, a crescendo of  offering thanks, little boys raising palms. And a celestial GPS, unswerving in its direction, "Yaya, Eeeh!" This is the way. Trust me.