The Rainbow, Words of Inspiration, Faith and Hope

It was a bad year for the roses.

March roared in and collapsed my world. My mother, friend, and lifelong mentor lay in a hospital bed dying from cancer. As I sat by her bedside watching her life slip through my hands, my husband came in with roses fresh from our garden. They were beautiful, delicate, peach-colored roses that filled the air with a perfume of hope.

In April, she passed away, leaving me to deal with the hole in my heart and the void in my life. The funeral was beautiful, if funeral’s can really ever be beautiful. They covered her casket in a spray of those beautiful peach-colored roses. Then, the friends left. The phone calls stopped. Tears came like a flood every time I went to her house, to tend to the things that needed to be done in her absence.

By May, my grief overwhelmed me. I carried bouquets of those peach-colored roses and placed them by her grave. I answered cards and letters, clipped obituaries and wrote thank-you notes, busying myself so as not to notice her absence.

Not long into June, I decided to create a tribute to this woman who so shaped my life. I dried some of those peach-colored roses and crafted an arrangement to frame her photograph. I worked at the same table where we sat together and said "Grace" over the years. It was a sad place to sit now, in her absence.

When July arrived, the roses were dying from the heat. Maybe they just missed her as much as I did. So many times I wanted to call her and tell her about something funny that happened to me that day, or to cry on her shoulder, or ask her a question that only she would know the answer. My life became a vacuum as I became acutely aware of the permanency of her absence.

August was just as hot, and my soul was still dying like the roses. I felt as if I was violating her privacy, having to go through her belongings. After the estate sale, I stood in the empty house and fully felt the weight of her absence.

A few months later, I had to pick out another beautiful spray of roses for my father’s casket. With his passing, my life had become as empty as the rosebushes in the garden that now refused to bear roses. I felt so vulnerable and insignificant on this huge planet, all alone, in their absence.

My life changed as dramatically as the seasons. Even though I was in my mid-forties, I suddenly felt orphaned. And even though my parents were in their golden years, I felt as if I had buried the parents of my youth.

Life is like a precious rose. Every flower is a joy to behold, for it’s fragile beauty is only for a short time and then it’s gone.

As the seasons continue to change, I realize that life does go on, even though it changes. Still missing them both, I cherish the things they left behind: priceless memories, precious siblings, and a deep sense of their undying love. It’s been nearly a year now, and the roses are blooming again as they stand tall and lift their buds to the warm sunshine.

Mimicking the roses, I stand tall and raise my face to the Heavens, knowing I still have life left in me. Thanks to the love of my parents, my roots are strong. Though the leaves may have fallen, I know I still have enough strength left to bloom again.