Grief

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Such a Fragrant Rose

October 5, 2007

Some of you may have noticed a broad gap in my writing over the last couple of months. It has been a hectic and very trying few months around my home and I’ve done quite well to keep up with the bustle... okay, somewhat well. Today, I decided, upon the advice of a cherished friend, that it would be a good idea for me to spend a weekend in the mountains, breathing some fresh, clean air and finding rest in the Lord among the handiwork I recognize as His, Mt Fork River -- a gift to me, a special place, a familiar reverie.

I’d just made up my mind to go tonight or very early in the morning. But before I could make the arrangements, I first had to take Ms Rose to the podiatrist. I called to let her know I was on my way. Her body crippled by arthritis for more than sixty years kept her from moving quickly, so unless she was sitting right there beside it, she often didn’t pick up the phone. Such I believed was the case, so I left a message: “I’m not going to stay here and wait for you to call back because I don’t want you to be late. I‘ll just come on over and assume you’re getting ready.”

It took great effort for her to get from her favorite kitchen chair to the back door, so I’ve always just let myself in. And if I didn’t find her in the kitchen, I’d just yell out to let her know I was there and then make myself comfortable at her table. She’s always had a coffee cup waiting there for me. And I drank with her, even if I didn’t really want the coffee. And if she set out chocolate chip cookies, I helped myself to them too, even if I didn’t want them either.

I’d take her hospitality in just so she’d know it was no sacrifice for me to spend a little time just sitting, just listening to a lonely and overly generous old woman. And if I cleaned her house, I’d let her pay me, but insist on taking half of what she offered. I’d have taken nothing at all, but she was proud and I just couldn’t take that pleasure away from her. It would have been so easy to take advantage of her if I had been anyone but who I am.

I took her to the cardiac specialist on Wednesday and to the lab for blood work. They were going to get the results and change her medication accordingly. In fact, the office left a message on her answering machine today, letting her know that they’d called in her new prescription and it was ready at the pharmacy. But they were too late.

I got to her house and found the door locked, unusual for Rose in the afternoon. I knocked and called out, but she didn’t answer. The shades were drawn, also something unusual. I went around the house to the other door, but found the same things. So I went next door to her son’s house. Greg has been having some health problems as well, is in need of a hip replacement, and doesn’t get around quickly. When I knocked on his door and yelled his name, he didn’t answer either. And after giving him a minute to get to the door, I decided that he and his mother must have left with someone and I came back home.

When I got here, I decided to call Greg’s number. Something just didn’t feel right. Surely she’d have called to let me know she had a change of plans. Then again, I thought, if not me, there is always someone tying up my phone with the net. Still I needed to know everything was okay.

As it turned out, I’d wakened him when I knocked. He said he’d gotten to the door just as I was leaving and knew that if I wasn’t taking Rose to the doctor, then something must have been wrong. He had a strong sense of foreboding as he rushed as quickly as his ragged body would allow him to Ms Rose’s house. And there, he found her, asleep in her wheelchair, a pain-free look of peace on her face.

Sometime during the night or very early in the morning, my friend danced gracefully away. I will miss her.

On the way home from the cardiologist Wednesday, Rose reminded me that I promised to play my harmonica for her and had yet to do so. “My mother played harmonica and ukulele. She played all the time and so well. And she sang so beautifully when she was all alone, but she got real quiet as soon as we walked in the house. She didn’t think she could sing that well. But I thought she had the most beautiful voice I ever heard.”

I often sang beneath my breath as I dusted her shelves and treasured trinkets. Mom used to tell me that I sang well, but I never thought so and was far too shy to let anyone hear me. And as for that harmonica, knowing that Rose’s mother played so much, I was sure afraid I would disappoint her with my rusty skills. But I felt an urge to keep a promise to her.

So as soon as I got her home that day, I went home myself, grabbed my harmonica, and ran back over to Rose’s house. I played for her, my best, though I don’t think much of my best harmonica playing when I compare it to that of others. And I watched as a sentimental smile crossed her face. She insisted that my song was beautiful as I played my own music, ‘The Sweet, Sweet Love of Jesus’ and ‘Free Indeed.’ Ah Rose, finally free.

Today, Greg asked me to play at her funeral. “Mamma told me that you played for her and that she loved it, that it was beautiful.”

Rose was beautiful. And I don’t know that I’ll do well. But I’m going to play for her. And I’m going to play my best. But the greatest music would be inadequate, much less my rusty skills. And I’ve offered to write and read her eulogy as well. I’m just praying God will give me the right words, the best words, sufficient for a fragrant Rose that dances so gracefully now, bending so easily and painlessly to bow before our King.

I would be so grateful to you all, my friends, for your prayers. Maybe I’ll get around to that slow, silent walk through the mountainous pine forest and to the gentle lull of the rushing Mt Fork waters soon. But the bustle in my home, at least for today, has become suddenly more dear to my ears.
~Treava

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