The following day, some friends from church brought us a new rosebush in her memory. They had selected one called Dainty Bess, a beautiful five-petal rose in cotton-candy pink with dark red stamens and a soft, sweet smell. It would be a lovely reminder of Mother. We planted the rosebush near the place where she had spent so many peaceful hours, and for me the bush became a symbol of her ongoing spirit. I spent the winter months pampering the little plant, urging it to survive and grow strong.
The cold rains finally stopped, and an early spring transformed our yard into a riot of fragrant color. Mother would have loved it, and I missed sharing her joy and enthusiasm for the garden.
Dainty Bess was thriving, covered with bright green leaves and, to our surprise, five long-stemmed buds. When the first delicate bloom opened, my spirits soared for the first time in months.
Our first rose show was five days away, and I became determined to enter a Dainty Bess bloom in memory of my mother’s life, believing this would finally put an end to my grieving. Unusually warm weather had quickly opened three of the five buds, so I cut the last two and placed them in the refrigerator to slow the blooming process. The day before the show, I tried to force them open by putting them in warm water. The first bud refused to open and simply bowed its head, but the last one was perfect. I placed it back in the refrigerator and prayed it would survive. Later that day, a nagging fear of losing the rose sent me out to the garden hoping to find another Dainty Bess hiding among the leaves, but there was no sign of a bud anywhere.
The next morning I opened up the refrigerator to find a bare stem in the vase and five pink petals lying on the shelf! I burst into tears. Losing the rose suddenly brought back all the memories of losing my mother. My husband gave me a comforting hug. “We’ll enter a Dainty Bess at the next show,” he said soothingly. But I could hear the disappointment in his voice.
With heavy hearts, we went into the garden to check the rest of the rosebushes for last-minute blooms before leaving for the show. Barely glancing at the Dainty Bess bush as I walked by, a small splash of color caught my eye. My gasp of surprise brought Rich rushing over to see what was wrong, and together we stared in disbelief at a single long-stemmed, tightly folded bud in the center of the bush. Faith had taught me to believe in miracles, but this was beyond all understanding. Almost afraid to touch it, I finally cut the stem. In stunned silence, we drove to the show.
When we arrived at the exhibit hall, the bud had barely begun to unfurl. I polished the leaves, then cupped my hands over the bloom and gave it several warm puffs of my breath to encourage it to open. I knew the rose would be disqualified if the petals weren’t fully opened by the time it was judged.
After I had done all I could, I stood back and looked at the little rose. Its beauty was breathtaking. Its half-opened petals reaching upward reminded me that I had been blessed with an extraordinary act of compassion. Then I realized that my competitive spirit had momentarily blinded me to the real reason for showing this rose—not for the prize or the glory of winning, but to honor my mother’s life. The rose was perfect just the way it was, and the judge’s opinion was no longer relevant. With a grateful heart and a sense of reverence, I placed the rose on the display table and walked away, free at last from sorrow’s grip.
When the judging was completed, we rushed over to retrieve our special rose. It had disappeared from the table! Seeing our confusion, a friend came over and asked if we had looked on the trophy table. There it was— opened to perfection, draped with a blue ribbon and standing next to a large silver trophy that said “Best Single-Petal Rose in Show.” It was a beautiful and unexpected tribute to my mother.
A few days later, I pressed the rose, hoping to keep it forever as proof that miracles do happen. But when I checked it just one week later, it had disintegrated into a fine powder that scattered into the air as I unfolded the paper around it. The rose had come into my life to console my aching heart, then vanished as mysteriously as it had appeared once its work was done.
Maria E. Sears
Mom’s Last Laugh
Some orthodox member of Thoreau’s family asked him if he had made his peace with God. Only Thoreau could have answered as he did, that he was not aware that he and God had ever quarreled.
Source Unknown
Consumed by my loss, I didn’t notice the hardness of the pew where I sat. I was at the funeral of my dearest friend, my mother. She finally had lost her long battle with cancer. The hurt was so intense that I found it hard to breathe at times.
Always supportive, Mother clapped loudest at my school plays, held a box of tissues while listening to my first heartbreak, comforted me at my father’s death, encouraged me in college and prayed for me my entire life.
At the time Mother’s illness was diagnosed, my sister was caring for a new baby and my brother had recently married, so it fell to me, the twenty-seven-year-old middle child without entanglements, to take care of her. I considered it an honor.
“What now, Lord?” I asked sitting in church. My life stretched out before me like an abyss.
My brother sat stoically with his face toward the cross while clutching his wife’s hand. My sister sat slumped against her husband’s shoulder, his arms around her as she cradled their child. They were all so deeply grieving that no one noticed I sat alone.
My place had been with our mother, preparing her meals, helping her walk, taking her to the doctor, seeing to her medication and reading the Bible together. Now she was with the Lord.
My work was finished, and I was alone.
I heard a door open and slam shut at the back of the church. Quick footsteps hurried along the carpeted floor. An exasperated young man looked around briefly and then sat next to me. He folded his hands and placed them on his lap. His eyes were brimming with tears. He began to sniffle.
“I’m late,” he explained, though no explanation was necessary.
After several eulogies, he leaned over and asked, “Why do they keep calling Mary by the name of Margaret?”
“Because that was her name, Margaret. Never Mary. No one called her Mary,” I whispered. I wondered why this person couldn’t have sat on the other side of the church. He interrupted my grieving with his tears and fidgeting. Who was this stranger anyway?
“No, that isn’t correct,” he insisted as several people glanced over at us. He whispered, “Her name is Mary, Mary Peters.”
“That isn’t who that is.”
“Isn’t this the Lutheran church?”
“No, the Lutheran church is across the street.”
“Oh.”
“I believe you’re at the wrong funeral, sir.”
The solemnness of the occasion mixed with the realization of the man’s mistake bubbled out of me as laughter. I cupped my hands over my face, hoping it would be interpreted as sobs.
The creaking pew gave me away. Sharp looks from other mourners only made the situation seem more hilarious. I peeked at the bewildered, misguided man seated beside me. He was laughing, too, as he glanced around, deciding it was too late for an uneventful exit. I imagined Mother laughing.
At the final “Amen,” we darted out a door and into the parking lot.
“I do believe we’ll be the talk of the town,” he smiled. He said his name was Rick and, since he had missed his aunt’s funeral, he asked me out for a cup of coffee.
That afternoon began a lifelong journey with this man who attended the wrong funeral, but was in the right place. A year after our meeting, we were married at a country church where he was the assistant pastor. This time we both arrived at the right church, and right on time.
In my time of sorrow, God gave me laughter. In place of loneliness, God gave me love. This past June we celebrated our twenty-third wedding anniversary.
Whenever anyone asks us how we met, Rick tells them, “Her mother and my Aunt Mary introduced us.”
Robin Lee Shope
I’m Okay, Mom and Dad
Perhaps they are not the stars, but rathe
r openings in heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know they are happy.
Inspired by an Eskimo Legend
When I returned home from the funeral of a church member, my grown daughter, Jenny, asked me about the service. I had been very moved by a story the priest told about a dragonfly, so I shared it with Jen.
A group of water bugs was talking one day about how they saw other water bugs climb up a lily pad and disappear from sight. They wondered where the other bugs could have gone. They promised one another that if one of them ever went up the lily pad and disappeared, it would come back and tell the others where it had gone.
About a week later one of the water bugs climbed up the lily pad and emerged on the other side. As it sat there, it transformed into a dragonfly. Its body took on an iridescent sheen, and four beautiful wings sprouted from its back. The dragonfly flapped its wings and took off in flight, doing loops and spins through the sunlit sky. In the midst of its joyful flight, it remembered the promise it had made to return and tell the other bugs where it had gone. So the dragonfly swooped down to the surface of the water and tried to reenter the water, but try as it would, it could not return.
The dragonfly said to itself, Well, I tried to keep my promise, but even if I did return, the others wouldn’t recognize me in my new glorious body. I guess they will just have to wait until they climb the lily pad to find out where I have gone and what I have become.
When I had finished relating the short story, my daughter said, with tears running down her cheeks, “Mom, that’s really beautiful!” I agreed, and we talked for a while about it.
Two days later, early Sunday morning, July 9, 1995, Jenny came into my room, waking me to say good-bye before leaving for work at a resort on Lake Okoboji. I hugged and kissed her and told her I would see her that night when I joined her for a week’s vacation at the lake. I asked her if she had eaten breakfast and if she was wide awake, as we had been out late the night before. I knew she was tired.
“Yes, Mom, I’ll see you later!”
Several hours later, our worst nightmare began. Jenny had been involved in a head-on collision and was flown to Sioux Falls, South Dakota. Thoughts crowded in on me: Why hadn’t I fixed her breakfast? Did I tell her I loved her? If I’d kept her with me a few minutes longer, would things have turned out differently? Why hadn’t I hugged her a little longer? Why hadn’t I kept her home with me that summer instead of letting her work at the lake? Why? Why? Why?
We flew to Sioux Falls and arrived at noon. Our Jen was hurt mortally, and at ten o’clock that night, she died. If God had given me a choice, I would have traded places with her in a second. Jenny had so much to give this world. She was so bright, beautiful and loving.
On Friday of that week, my husband and I drove to the lake to see family, and we stopped to see where the accident had occurred. I don’t remember a lot, but I know I was hysterical trying to figure out what had happened and why.
Leaving the scene of the accident, I asked my husband to take me to a greenhouse, as I needed to be around beautiful flowers. I just couldn’t face anyone yet.
Walking to the back of the hothouse, I heard the fluttering of wings as if a bird or hummingbird was hitting the top of the roof. I was looking at a beautiful rose when a beautiful, large dragonfly landed within arm’s length of me. I stood there looking at this lovely creature, and I cried. My husband walked in. I looked at him and said, “Jenny is telling us that she’s okay.” We stood and looked at the lovely dragonfly for a long time, and as we walked out of the hothouse, the dragonfly remained on the rose.
A couple of weeks later, my husband came running into the house telling me to come outside quickly. When I walked out our door, I could not believe what I saw. There were hundreds of dragonflies flying in front of our house and between ours and the neighbor’s. I have never seen that many dragonflies at once in town, and the strangest thing about it was that they were only by our house.
There is no way these two experiences were just coincidences. They were more than that. They were messages from Jen.
Each time I see a dragonfly, beautiful memories of my daughter kiss my grieving heart.
Lark Whittemore Ricklefs
Meant to Be
A few years ago, we had a Lab puppy named Blue whom we loved very much. But because everyone in the family spent so much time at work or at school, it soon became obvious Blue wasn’t getting the attention and training she needed. It was a difficult decision, but we decided to see if we could find her a better home than we could provide at that time.
I asked around at our church and at work, looking for a special home for Blue. A coworker told me that she had a friend whose old dog had recently died. The family was looking for a puppy. I knew of the family: the husband was named Frank and his wife, Donna, was a Lamaze instructor who worked at a local hospital. Their children, my friend told me, were crazy about dogs and missed their old dog tremendously. It sounded like the perfect place.
I spoke to Donna on the phone, and she was thrilled about taking Blue. I arranged for my husband to deliver the puppy the following day, which was a Friday. Frank gave my husband their address, 412 Adams, and told him that he would be home all day, doing work on the house, so my husband should look for ladders in the front yard.
The next morning, my husband took Blue and set off in the car. Our sad good-byes were lightened by the knowledge that she was going to a wonderful home.
Donna and Frank lived an hour away, on the other side of the nearest big town. My husband found the house; the number 412 was clearly displayed and there was a ladder in the front yard. Taking the puppy in his arms, he went up to the house and knocked on the door. There was no answer. He waited a moment and knocked again.
A man in the next yard called over to him, “Who are you looking for?”
My husband said, “Frank.”
“Oh, Frank went to the hospital,” he said. “I don’t know when he’s coming back.”
My husband was irked. Frank had said he’d be home all day. Maybe he’d had to give Donna a ride to work at the hospital. But my husband couldn’t wait around. He had made appointments for the rest of the day and had to get going. Something of this must have shown on his face, for the man in the next yard said, “What’s the problem, young fella?”
My husband explained his predicament and the neighbor offered to keep the puppy at his house until Frank returned. The neighbor had a fenced yard and said it’d be no trouble at all. He was a nice man with dogs of his own, and my husband decided it would be all right. He gave the puppy to the neighbor and left for his appointments.
The following Monday when I returned to work, my coworker said to me, “Did you change your mind about giving away Blue?”
Surprised, I answered, “No. Why?”
“Well, Donna told me you never delivered her on Friday. They figured you’d had a change of heart when it came time to really say good-bye.”
I told her we certainly had delivered Blue. I called Donna and told her about the neighbor taking care of Blue until Frank returned.
“But Frank was home all day!” she insisted. “And we haven’t heard from any of our neighbors.”
What on earth was going on? We finally figured out that my husband had made a wrong turn and had gone to 412 on the next street over. There had been a storm not long before and many people had ladders out to do roof and gutter repairs. Could it possibly be that the man in that house was also named Frank?
My husband and I got into the car and drove over to see what had become of Blue. We saw immediately that that he’d gone one street too far and we knocked on the door of the house where he’d left Blue.
A red-faced man in his sixties answered our knock. When we explained that we were looking for a puppy that had been delivered here last week, the man answered, “Oh, you mean the one that Frank ordered.”
Realizing that the man at 412 on this street was also named Frank, we explained
the mix-up. The man’s face grew somber.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Is the puppy all right?”
“Oh, the puppy is fine. In fact, I’m sure the puppy is great. But . . . well, I hope you don’t want it back,” he said seriously. Seeing the question in our eyes, he continued, “When you came with the puppy on Friday, my neighbor Frank was at the hospital. He’d been out in the yard working and had started having chest pains, so his wife took him to the hospital. Frank never did come home. He died of a massive coronary Friday afternoon. It was a terrible shock for his family, and I decided not to bother them until things had settled down a bit. Yesterday, I brought the puppy over and knocked on their door. Frank’s eldest daughter came out. I told her that her father had ordered a puppy and since he hadn’t been home, that I’d taken delivery on it for him. I said I didn’t know what to do with the little dog now that ‘things had changed’ at their house.
“The daughter just couldn’t believe it. She said, ‘My father ordered a puppy? This is Dad’s puppy?’ Then she reached out and I gave her the pup. She hugged that little dog real tight, stuck her face in its fur and just began to cry.
“I wasn’t sure what to say, so I just stood there. After a while, she looked up at me and thanked me. She said, ‘You don’t know what this means to me. I’m so glad to have my father’s dog.’ The puppy was wiggling around, trying to kiss the daughter any way it could and her face was just lit up with love.”
Amazed at the story I turned to my husband, “We can’t take Blue back now.”
The man nodded in agreement. “Folks, some things are just meant to be. I’d say that puppy is in exactly the right place.”
Cindy Midgette
A Surprise Gift for Mother
Death is the end of a lifetime, not the end of a relationship.
Mitch Albom
On Christmas Day, all the joys of close family relationships radiated throughout our parents’ home. The smells of roasted turkey, Southern-baked ham and homemade bread hung in the air. Tables and chairs were set up everywhere to accommodate toddlers, teenagers, parents and grandparents. Every room was lavishly decorated. No family member had ever missed Christmas Day with our parents.