My Perfect Roses

Last Sunday, my thoughts were just as drab and boring as the world I had been walking through.  I felt trapped as I made my way down the main aisle of the backroom of my workplace.  I was surrounded on all sides by dull, concrete floors, light gray steel beams, and plain brown cardboard boxes.  But then just like in the Wizard of Oz when black and white scenes suddenly blossom into brilliant color, I noticed something crimson red shining just to my left side.  I turned around and gasped as I caught my breath.

“Oh, those are beautiful!”  I sighed as I came to a complete dreamlike stop.  I suddenly forgot why I had been in such a hurry as I focused on the long stem roses that were lying in a blue basket.  The black handle of the square basket was resting across Bernard’s left arm.

“Do you want a rose?” the assistant manager asked me.

“Really,” I smiled.  “I can have one?”

“Of course, you can,” he answered as he offered the basket out to me.  I thanked him profusely and grabbed the stem of a large blooming red rose.  I pulled the luscious flower from the basket and held it up to my face to breath in the delicious scent of the petals.  “Okay,” Bernard said after I had been completely intoxicated with the sweet aroma.  “You have to let me take your picture now.”

That’s when I noticed that Bernard was holding a digital camera in his opposite hand.  I’ve always been very uncomfortable in front of cameras.  So, now, I shook my head.  “No, thanks,” I told him.  “I’ll have to give you the rose back.”  I started to place the beautiful, perfect creation back into the basket.  Refusing the picture was actually a graceful way out for me because I had suddenly realized that the roses actually had a special purpose.  The flowers were for Mommas.  I had completely forgotten through the course of my busy workday that it was Mother’s Day.  I don’t have children of my own and my mother had passed on seven years ago.  So, of course, I don’t really have a reason or a right to celebrate Mother’s Day and, honestly, it is a holiday that makes me really sad.  I sighed wistfully as I placed the rose back into the basket.

“No, it’s okay,” Bernard told me.  “You can have a rose.  Go ahead and keep it…and I won’t force you to have your picture taken either.”

I just shook my head no and slowly began to back away.  I didn’t deserve the flower.  “Thank you, Bernard,” I told him.  “I do appreciate it but I’m not a mother.  I don’t have any children.  These roses should go to mothers today.

Bernard just laughed then and said, “It doesn’t matter.  You can have a rose, too, if it makes you happy.  Come on.  Take one.”  He held the basket out to me again.

I couldn’t stop smiling now as I grabbed hold of the stem of the flower I had just returned and pulled it back out of the basket.  “Thank you,” I told him.

“That’s fine,” Bernard answered.  “Just enjoy it.

And I did.  Holding the rose and running my fingers over the red, feather soft petals made my day a little brighter.  I was really missing my mother and the rose made me think of her.  I thought about the rose bush my mother had planted and carefully nurtured in the corner of our backyard when I was a child.  But then, thinking about my mother who had sacrificed so much for me, I couldn’t help feeling a little guilty.  I wondered if I had taken a rose away from a woman who was much more deserving than I could ever be.  Did I just steal a rose from one of the many gracious women who went through the pain of childbirth and suffered sleepless nights taking care of sick children?

Honestly, I would have loved to have been one of those women.  But certain life situations and health problems such as ovarian cysts and uterine tumors prevented me from feeling worthy of a rose.  But I also had to admit that the flower and Bernard’s kindness, the way he included me in this simple tribute, made me smile and brightened my day.

A week later, Sunday, May 20, 2017, I was back at work and having a rather bad day.  I kept repeating to myself New Age affirmations to help me make it through my work hours.  “A good or bad day is just my perception.”  “I can use my power of positive thinking to make this a better day.”  But nothing seemed to help.  I spent the day struggling with even the most minor tasks.  I just couldn’t seem to adjust to the stress of the day and my frustration was pushing me to the point of tears.

As I struggled to pull myself together that afternoon, I suddenly heard someone calling out to me.  I turned around to see  Charles standing behind me.  “Here, this is for you, Jamie,” he said as he held out his hand to me.  “Take this and hold onto it until your day becomes better.”  I stared down at the small, red rose resting in his palm, and my heart suddenly filled with hope and gratitude.  I was so touched by Charles’s sweet gesture.  “Thank you so much,” I answered.  “That’s so sweet of you.”   I reached out and took the rose from his hand.  As Charles walked away , I pinned the rose to my shirt and immediately began to feel much better.  What an amazing blessing that gift was!  And now, after all of the positive thinking I tried to force on myself, that simple rose made me feel so much better.

I thought now about both roses I had received over the last two Sundays and I realized something.  Though I regret not being a mother, though I am ashamed of myself for not handling my frustration better, people still cared about me.  I don’t have to be anything in particular or do anything special for people to think of me.  I had no reason to feel inadequate or ashamed or lacking in my life.  I don’t have to have a great job or a lot of money.  Instead, all I had to do was be kind and have a good heart and there will always be people to support and help me.

My coworker’s kindnesses reminded me of the love Jesus Christ holds for all of us.  He knows our regrets and our failings and yet He continues to love and support us anyway.  He continues to help us grow strong and beautiful and blossom into special spirits….just like my beautiful perfect roses.  I am so blessed!

Thank you so much, Bernard and Charles, for your kindness…and my roses!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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Highway Lessons

Last Sunday, February 19, was my day off from work.  I had been looking forward to it even though I didn’t have anything planned.  But that’s the way I usually enjoy my days off.  I don’t like having a full schedule or having any place in particular that I need to be.  So, that morning, I woke up slowly and got dressed.  Then I spent an hour or so lingering over a cup of coffee and a mystery novel.  I reveled in the feeling of just lazing around for a while before going to the gym.  I spent an hour exercising my legs and doing some cardio.  I was relaxed and at peace….

Well, at least, until I was driving home after my work out.  I felt a little anxious while I was on the highway.  I was eager to get back home.  I had a list of things I wanted to accomplish that afternoon.  I needed to clean my house and work on my novel.  I needed to file my taxes and pay bills.  I wasn’t feeling stressed; I was just motivated to get on with my day.  I took a deep breath and told myself to calm down.  I smiled as I listened to my stereo and watched the highway unfold in front of me.  The drive home was peaceful…

Until it wasn’t any more.

Wait!  What’s this?  What’s happening?

I came around a bend in the highway and suddenly found that traffic had slowed down before coming to a complete stop.  All three lanes of the northbound 435 were blocked by stranded cars.  I suddenly found myself waiting in a long line of traffic in the far right lane.  I was still too far away to know what was causing the traffic jam, but the cars directly in front of me suddenly began to veer over to the left to get into the middle lane.  I quickly swerved over, too, before traffic could build up too heavily behind me.  Once more, I found myself sitting in the middle of traffic as I watched two police cars, a fire truck, and an ambulance, all with sirens blaring, speeding by on the shoulder of the highway.

After a few moments, traffic slowly began to move forward; however, the cars in my lane were once more merging to the left and pushing into the fast lane.  I looked in my rearview mirror and noticed a small gap opening up in the left lane.  A large black SUV was still a few feet away.  I began to maneuver to the left when the SUV suddenly sped forward and closed the gap, shutting me out.  I was a little shocked that the man behind the wheel would not allow me the opportunity to merge.  I glared at him for a moment before pulling back into the middle lane and creeping forward a few feet.  Again, I noticed a gap in the left lane and started to ease over, just to be once more cut off by a woman in a small red Toyota Camry.  I shook my head and then tried again to get in the left lane.  The cars in front of me had already merged over to the left.  Why was I finding it so difficult to get a break in the heavy traffic?  Over and over again, five, six, seven times, vehicles zoomed forward without giving me a break.  I was trapped behind police cars and fire trucks that were now parked directly in front of me in the middle lane.  I was stuck; there was no room for me to move forward.  I had no choice; I had to merge but just couldn’t seem to find a kind-hearted person to have pity on me and allow me a break.

Even though I didn’t know what the problem was, I knew this was a dangerous situation.  I just had to be patient and not cause any further problems.  I reminded myself that someone would be kind enough to give me a break sooner or later.  I told myself to be kind to other people.  I needed to allow other drivers the opportunity to get through the backed up traffic.  So as I waited for a break to merge to the left, I stopped and allowed a few cars from the far right lane in front of me.  That probably wasn’t the best idea.  I was stuck even deeper in the middle of traffic now.  Again, I took another deep breath.  Be cool!  I told myself.  Don’t make a bad situation worse.

But I was still sitting in the middle of traffic with my blinker clicking and a little green arrow flashing on my dashboard.  I kept inching over to the left only to find my front bumper in danger of being knocked off by speeding cars that were pushing around me and not allowing me access to the fast lane.  Feeling trapped and beginning to think I was going to be in this position for the rest of the day, I now began to get agitated and irritated.  My patience had started to run very thin.  Why was this happening?  I wondered.  Why are all of these people being so rude?  I have to admit then I was getting really impatient and angry.  How is this fair?  I was tired of just sitting on the highway being pushed around by the other drivers.  And I admit I used a few words I hadn’t said in a very long time.  I cussed and swore and said things I would never want to repeat….I’m still surprised that I said them in the first place.  But I was just so aggravated with everyone at this point.  I finally realized that if I wanted to get anywhere that afternoon I would have to be aggressive and demanding.  I finally realized that I would just have to push my way into the left lane.  I stared into the side mirror until I noticed another small gap in the line of traffic.  I took a deep breath and quickly swung my car over to the left.  I just prayed that the person who was driving in the fast lane would stop, especially since I was straddling both lanes.  Then as traffic moved forward, I quickly pulled into the left lane, drove past the fire truck and ambulance….

…And suddenly, my breath caught in my throat.

Now, that I had driven around the fire truck, I could see the situation clearly.  A massive car wreck had taken place just moments earlier.  Two cars were sitting on the left shoulder of the highway and a third car was halfway in a ditch on the right.  I couldn’t see any damage to these cars, but I wasn’t really paying that much attention to them.  Instead, my eyes and mind became focused on a fourth car that was in the right hand lane.  The car was upside down and the roof and windows no longer exited.  The car was lying completely flat.  Oh, my gosh, seeing the way the car was situated, I couldn’t imagine that the driver and passengers had survived.  There was no way anyone in that black, muddy car could have lived through this wreck.  The top of the car was smashed flat down on the highway.

Tears burned in my eyes and I felt myself gasping for breath.  I started saying quick prayers for all the souls involved in this wreck.  But I couldn’t stop on the highway.  I needed to keep moving and that was alright because I just wanted to get away now.  I quickly drove down the highway and away from the damage.  I was really ashamed of myself.  How could I have gotten so upset at the other drivers for not letting me switch lanes?  Why couldn’t I have just remained calm and patient?  People lost their lives just now on this highway and here I was getting upset because I thought people were being rude to me.

The other drivers actually weren’t being rude, I realized now.  It wasn’t anything personal.  Everyone was just stressed and frustrated and just wanted to get on their way.  I had been so bad today.  I had cursed the cars zooming past me and completely forgotten that there were real, vulnerable people inside those other vehicles.  Instead of getting irritated, I should have just said prayers for everyone to be protected and to arrive safely at their destination.  The awful sight of the smashed, overturned car was a perfect reminder that we are all so fragile and need to be treated with kindness, dignity, and respect.  We are all only human and so quickly because of one outrageous, silly mistake, life can be gone so quickly

As I drove down the highway, I continued to pray for the people involved in the wreck and for all of the other drivers around me.  I asked that God protect everyone traveling on the highway that day.  I apologized to God for getting so upset and angry.  I then told God that I was just so tired of all of the hatefulness, the death, and the destruction that seemed to be so prominent in the world today.  Make it stop, God, please.

And just then, I drove around a bend and there, by the side of the highway, was a field full of bright beautiful flowers.  Colorful spring flowers were lining the side of the highway on this cold February day.  And there was a small sign right in front that read “Wildflowers in Bloom.”  I smiled then and drove the rest of the way home with a joyful heart and the world suddenly at peace.

 

 

 

 

My Mother’s Dream

My mom and I would sit side by side on the small square concrete porch in the back yard on hot summer evenings in Kansas.  Our small house had no central air conditioning and there was nowhere else to go to escape the humid heat of the day.  We would just sit together and watch the day slowly disappear as we told each other our dreams.  My 10-year-old self talked about castles, princesses, movies, music, poems, and Donny Osmond. I would weave complicated future lives for myself of success and fortune.  My mother would just listen.  She never took a side.  She didn’t encourage nor discourage my dreams.  She would take a neutral position believing that would keep us both safe.

My mother was a woman of simple dreams.  She didn’t wish for large houses or fancy cars.  She didn’t want stylish clothes or expensive jewelry.  That summer, the only thing my mother dreamed of was an apple tree.

My mother sat on the porch one lazy evening.  In the glow of the setting sun, she stared out at our large fenced-in backyard.  I followed her gaze but couldn’t figure out what was so fascinating about the brown grass that was slowly decaying under the pressure of the hot summer sun.  I looked at the patches of dry, dusty, balding earth that pushed up sporadically through the grass.  My father had continually screamed at his four children to stop running, sliding, playing, and wrestling on the lawn.  But without video games, DVD players, cell phones, and stereos, there was really nothing more to do.  My siblings and I continually played outdoors.  One of our favorite games was to chase each other up the high hill that was part of our backyard.  We would tackle and then drag each other down the hill by the arm or the leg.  It was always more fun after a rainstorm.  We would pull and push each other down the hill and into the small puddles of mud that formed on the flat land that lead up to our back porch.

My mother’s eyes, however, saw something completely different as she stared into the distance.  “I want an apple tree,” my mother stated in the strongest, most determined voice I had ever heard her use.  “I want an apple tree to plant in this back yard.  Wouldn’t it be amazing, Jamie?” she asked, trying to draw me into her fantasy.  “Can you imagine just walking out our back door and pulling apples right off of our very own tree in our very own backyard?”  Her voice grew lighter as her eyes sparkled.  “I can make fresh apple pies for us.  I can make apple fritters and turnovers.  We would be cooler, too.  We could sit under the shade of the tree and get out of the heat for a while.”

I just smiled at my mother and didn’t say a word.  I was just a child and couldn’t see her vision.  I just saw a dry, dusty yard; the earth cracking apart from the heat.  My mother’s apple tree dream didn’t inspire me.

But Mom was determined.  The next day, she searched through the plants, flowers, and trees in the garden shop at our local K-mart.  This isn’t the first time Mom had browsed through the garden section.  Mom loved plants and had been successful with small gardens she had created in the back yard.  She grew roses, marigolds, tomatoes, and green beans.  Why not an apple tree, too?

Mom carefully looked through all of the trees and finally held one up triumphantly.  “Look at this one, Jamie,” she shrilled.  “Isn’t it beautiful?”

I silently stared at the 3-foot stick Mom held in front of her.  That’s all it was.  It was just a long stick with the far end encased in a plastic-wrapped wad of soil.  Mom lovingly placed the apple stick in her basket and carefully pushed it over to the check-out.

I watched as Mom opened up her small wallet and warily counted out four dollars.  She hesitated for just a moment as she held the money tightly in her hands.  She looked at the stick for a moment and then down at her money.  She glanced back at the stick and then down at me.  Then she slowly handed the money over to the cashier.  Even at a young age, I knew how much my mother had to scrimp and save just to have those four dollars.  She rarely spent any money on herself.

“We’ll have fresh apples, Jamie.  The whole family will enjoy the fruit from this tree.  We’ll make all kinds of pies and tarts.  This is going to be a great investment.”  On the way home, Mom talked on as she tried hard to justify her purchase.  I think part of her felt guilty about spending the money on something she really wanted.  Thinking she could share it with her children and that the family would benefit was the only way Mom could ever spend money on herself.

When we got back home, Mom proudly carried the apple stick out to the back yard.  At the base of the hill on the right side of the yard, my mother dug a hole about two feet deep.  She carefully stuck the now-unwrapped soiled end of the stick down into the hole.  She quickly maneuvered the dirt around the base.  Mom smiled then as she slowly backed away.  Suddenly she jumped forward quickly as the apple stick began to tilt to the left.  Mom quickly righted the stick and packed the dirt a little tighter on the left side.  My mother then sat back on the ground and smiled.  She lay back on the grass just staring up at the stick for a few minutes.  I’m sure she was seeing the tree as if it were already full grown and looming over the backyard.  I’m sure she was imaging the tree blooming, the apples growing, and the shadow of the tree hiding her from the sun.

Over the next several days, my mother tended loving to her apple stick.  It wasn’t an easy task with four energetic, rambunctious children, who had nothing to do on a lonely summer day, running around.  My siblings and I continued to play in the back yard.  Mom would run out of the back door every few minutes as she saw her beloved tree tilting dangerously to one side.  “Be careful,” she would scream to us.  “Watch out for a tree!”  All four of us would stare at Mom in surprise.  A tree would be easy to see and avoid.  It proved to be a little more difficult to sidestep a stick.  My siblings and I continually and accidentally ran and stumbled over Mom’s apple tree.

My mother kept a close eye on her tree over the next few days.  She constantly shouted to her children to be carefully when we were running, playing, and dragging each other around.  Over time, we became use to the tree sticking straight up from the ground.  However, the stick was hard to see in the dark.

One hot June night, with her children and a few neighbor kids playing tag in the backyard, Mom finally allowed herself to join in the fun.  In the dark, she whooped and cheered and laughed as she chased the kids around the yard.  Mom was having so much fun being a child again, she wasn’t paying any attention to where she was going.  Suddenly, all of the kids froze as we heard a crack, snap, and then a sad anguished cry.

My brother ran into the house and flipped on the back porch lit.  Now, the yellowish glow revealed the source of the strange noises.  My mother sat sprawled on the ground.  Her beautiful apple tree was now lying across her legs.  My mother reached down and picked up the stick.  The single stick of my mother’s apple tree had cracked and split right off at the roots.  I just remember the sadness in my mother’s eyes as she looked up at me. Anguish creased her face as she struggled to hold back the tears.

“Momma…”  I said slowly.

“It’s okay,” she answered as she brushed her hands over her face.  She pulled herself slowly up from the ground, still holding her apple tree in her hands.  “It’s okay,” she said.  Then she chuckled sarcastically, “I did it myself.  I killed the tree myself.”

Mom then slowly walked toward the house as her kids followed her like little ducklings.  We were all silent as we climbed into bed and went to sleep.

My mother was in the back yard early the next morning.  I watched through the bedroom window as she slowly dug up  the ground and pulled out the last remnants of her destroyed dream.  I watched my mother refill the hole with dirty as tears rolled down her face.  My mother’s tree was gone. My mother’s dreams were gone.  I’m sure she grieved, too, over her hard-earned money.  She had felt so guilty spending on herself in the first place.  Now, it felt like such a waste when she could have used the money for her children.  I watched my mother carry the roots of the tree over to the trash.  She paused before she dumped the bundle inside the large garbage can.  I swear I saw her pray over the tree before she let the roots drop from her hands.  She looked down at her dirty palms as tears again rolled down her face.  Then, she wiped her hands in the grass, took a deep breath, and smiled as she walked in the house to awake her children for the morning.

My mother kept her dreams private after that.  She never asked for anything more.  We would sit together on the back porch on summer evenings.  We were silent as we would sit side by side and watch the sun go down.