At times my roses betray me. I prune them, water them and give them good plant food to eat.
And yet whenever I go out to pick a cluster of flowers, I'll inevitably find myself recoiling in pain, as one of their blasted thorns pierces my thumb.
As the blood trickles down my wrist, I fume inwardly. Don’t the roses realize I’m their caretaker? Couldn’t they show me a little more respect?
But they remain stubbornly silent, glowing like jewels in the sun while I nurse my wound.
Some folks grow roses that are thorn-free, but they lack the ineffably sweet scent of the ones that come equipped with teeth.
Besides, the thorns serve as a reminder that our world is inherently flawed. It’s a place where mosquitoes can disrupt the finest picnic, vipers slink about in the garden and gentle people are sometimes whipped and killed.
In our bedroom is a plant called crown of thorns, also known as the Christ plant. It has large, razor-sharp protuberances on its thick, woody stalks.
Sometimes I sit on the bed and stare out the window at the trees, trying to spend time in prayer. Gazing at the nearby plant, I reflect that if one tiny thorn from a rose can cause so much pain, then the circle of sharp brambles embedded in Christ’s scalp surely felt a million times worse.
It is normal to seek a happy life, to yearn for sunny days and a garden glittering with gorgeous flowers. But in fact life harbors thorns everywhere we turn.
For many, the body’s thorns don’t show up until middle age. Then the knee pings, the tooth aches, the back slumps. We are brought face to face with a startling fact of life that the roses already seem to know.
No life comes without suffering. And as we reach out to pluck life’s joys -- whether it’s marrying the person of our dreams or celebrating the birth of a child -- we may get tangled in briars. Our sweetheart may one day become gravely ill and the baby may grow into a troubled teen.
Still, no matter how much their thorns pierce us, the glory of the roses is always worth it. I’m willing to endure the little nips and bites in order to savor their sumptuous scent.
The faithful wife will say that no matter how ill her husband is she will stay with him. The devoted mother will attest that despite the heartache the child is still her darling.
Those who have faith in God know that life’s thorns don’t last forever. Yes, this is a flawed world, but another awaits us. It’s a place without brambles and blood where love never ends and gentle people are never wounded.
Lorraine Murray’s latest books are “The Abbess of Andalusia: Flannery O’Connor's Spiritual Journey" and “Death of a Liturgist,” a mystery set in Decatur. Her email address is lorrrainevmurray@yahoo.com.
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