About roses

D.C. is a city of roses, especially on Capitol Hill. Previous owners of old townhouses who died long ago planted lovely bushes that permeate the neighborhood with a lovely scent throughout the month of June (or May, as was the case this year). I love how most of the classic rose bushes have the dark green leaves and proud buds that seem victorious as they emerge from the leaves and thorns that surround them. I make a point of stopping to smell them when I can, and am always delighted to occasionally catch others in the act. Some of the especially fragrant ones remind me of the “double delight” rose bush we once had at home. And the hand-picked bouquets Dad brought and still brings Mom, a conglomeration of the best flowers at his various properties.

We have climbing roses, too, that crawl up brick and stone and usually feature flowers in pastel hues. Their bud is not the tight, traditional flower of romance, but color covers the expanse of the plant like a thousand fireworks exploding instantaneously. Their impact is undeniably stunning.

And then there are wild roses. I fell in love with wild roses while going to college in rural Virginia, for more reasons than one. Their delicate scent reminds me of a simpler time, a summer long ago when I first felt like an adult (and was anything but). Wild roses are ramblers, not nearly as ostentatious as their better-bred cousins. They are not easy to define or control. In truth, they aren’t much to look at; but then again, their thorns aren’t much to speak of. And their smell is just as intoxicating as their refined counterparts.

Part of my love for wild roses stems from a beautiful story a dear friend wrote years ago. She gave it to me at Christmas, along with a very pretty ring that I still love wearing, to remind me that God works in ways we might not expect, and that His definition of beauty is that which He makes in His time. So when I discover wild roses – whether through scent while weaving my arm out the window on a drive to rural Virginia or by sight when turning a new corner in the city – I am reminded that He crafted each one of us uniquely in His image. The sweet white blooms, inconspicuous and sometimes seemingly lost in brambles and weeds, are not overlooked by the Master Gardener. In His eyes, what we would consider the great and the weak can have equal value. Sometimes the seemingly lesser can even eclipse the seemingly greater.

For things are rarely what they seem. They are what they are, and only One has perfect eyes to see Reality for what it is. So wouldn’t it make sense to exchange my shortsighted vision for that of the Eternal by drawing close to Him... and just be grateful to be in His garden?

Thanks be to God, who always leads us in triumphal procession in Christ and through us spreads everywhere the fragrance of the knowledge of him. For we are to God the aroma of Christ among those who are being saved and those who are perishing. To the one we are the smell of death; to the other, the fragrance of life. And who is equal to such a task? ~ St. Paul, II Corinthians 2:14-16

Photo credit: My brilliant roommate.