Just a Rose?

In my husband Frank’s last hours, instead of telling him to go toward the light, I whispered one last request.  “You’ve shown me that heaven isn’t that far away. Will you please give me a sign that you are close to me, too?” Since his death, I’ve walked the yard, stared from the window and sat on the deck…waiting.  Just please give me something that tells me it’s Frank.

It was time, … maybe even past time. The casket spray used at the mortuary while he laid in state, was three days older than the rest. Still, I had requested the arrangement of white roses, winterberry stems and evergreen, be brought to the house after the funeral. These were the flowers in my presence as I sat next to Frank’s body in my last hour alone with him.

The roses, wilting with time, were ten days old. For the last three, I painfully watched as several dozen roses seem to sag and cry, telling me of their beauty spent. The mournful wither signified the finality of it all.  Yet, I couldn’t let go. There was that one rose among the rest. It wasn’t fading. So, I waited.

Over a period of forty-eight hours, I took pictures of the rapid deterioration contrasting with the perfect splendor of one rose. Despite the slight hint of sour floral water, I had the feeling I was experiencing more than just a documentation of waste.

One more evening I sat with the rose. The magnificence of this one flower brought me to sobbing tears of joy. It was clear this unexplainable resilience of beauty was my gift.

The next morning, petals and form still sturdy, the edges had begun to warn of a slight whisper of discoloration. Attempting to preserve this precious gift, I pulled it from the arrangement. My inquisitive nature has always drawn me to weigh the scales when science and faith intersect. The stem was neither dry nor soaked, when some of the others were decisively one or the other. Physical element could not compete.

The picture wasn’t enough. I carefully hung it upside down to dry, ordered a case and treated this material object as if there would be no more. I got what I asked for and considered myself grateful.

Less than a week later, I arose to a picture-perfect Christmas morning. Lured by the sunshine, I stepped out onto the deck, surveying the yard for signs of life. Enjoying the calm before grandchildren arrived, another reminder appeared. Noticeably absent from view since Frank had passed, finally a single brilliant red Cardinal landed at the far edge of our backyard.

Perching himself in a tree where frequent visiting cardinals are not normally drawn to, I sputtered audible laughter. It was as if Frank himself was making a statement with the pure knowledge granted by heaven. “Of course, I’m over here. Janie this is a pear tree. It’s Christmas morning. Where else should I be?”

What made me laugh out loud was this sign reminisced of our inside joke. Frank never knew or cared about tree species. In fact, he made fun of me whenever I started rattling on about the types, the root systems or growth patterns. Suddenly it dawned on me, the humorous wit and joy were very much a part of our love, even in our trials. Even though I could not touch him or see him, I wondered if these interactive thoughts were also, some kind of communication. In life, Frank knew me better than I knew myself and in illness, I assumed that role for him. If soul and love live on, what is death?

I have spent the last ten years of my life negotiating that graceful space between what I wanted versus what God has ordained to be best. As guilty as most of us, I have been attuned to wishing for the massive fireworks display when the true reward is in the radiance of a star. But the power of love allowed me to journey with Frank through debilitating loss and imagine, if not experience, that thin veil between heaven and earth.

Two days ago, I had another surprise. Alzheimer’s is a strange beast that disrupts more than mental expectations – actual things go missing. On the day of our wedding, I had given Frank my most prized possession of my father’s - his rosary. Seven years ago, in the height of Frank’s active AD, it disappeared.

I remember how long it has been, because repeatedly I’ve roused through the house in fits, particularly Frank’s things, on and off for years. The nightstand where he kept it? With particular attention, at least a half dozen times I meticulously emptied its contents piece by piece. It was not there. I had even given up and prayed that whoever found it, used it for the intended purpose and was blessed by its’ possession.

On Monday, reaching into the top drawer to grab the bed remote while cleaning, I saw something lying halfway under his billfold. There it was in plain sight. How could that be? Something so physical mysteriously re-entering my ownership.

Less than two weeks ago, I was willing to accept the single sign of one rose. Then other things happened. Maybe I don’t need to be specific?

It is said that love is so over abundant in heaven we cannot even comprehend its’ power. Some also say that time does not exist as we experience it in the earthly concept. My defined requests can’t hold a candle to the infinite knowledge God has ordained in a place of this kind of majesty. There is no way to predict the ‘how’ or ‘when’ love spills from the seams of heaven.  

It is not that the prayer shall go unanswered, it is I who must accept the sense of wonder in order to see it. So, go ahead – surprise me!