Becoming, I Come

 Becoming, I Come
By: Joy Ortiz

Here am I
Dressed in white,
Walking down the longest aisle
To you.
I have veiled my eyes,
Covered my head
With prayers
Spun thin and numerous,
Woven together
To billow in the slightest breeze,
An effervescent reminder
That each one
Indeed
Had substance.
I have piled my hair,
A shining mass,
Curled and coiffed
Atop my head.
Its length,
Formerly
Lank and unattended,
Hiding my face
From you,
I have washed.
I brushed out
Every knot,
Cut away
Split ends.
With the greatest care
I put
Every hair in place

For you,
Pulled back
High and shining
To reveal my face.
I have washed
My hands,
Scrubbing away
Every trace
Of dirty deeds done
Before I met you.
Soaked and softened,
Every hard spot,
Each callous,
Every roughness
Melts away,
Transforming hands
Which used to labor
For my own reward
Into hands of
Tenderness.
I proudly wear
The shining white dress
You bought for me.
With time and care,
I wrought embroidery upon it
To surprise and delight you.
Every righteous deed
I have done

Sparkles like a star
Stitched in place
With all my love and effort.
See how I have added
Beauty upon beauty?
I did it all for you
That I might be
Even more beautiful
In your sight.
Look at my feet.
I have clad them
In shoes fit for dancing.
No high heels for me.
I am elevated enough
Standing on my own two feet
Next to you.
When you take my hand
And lead me
Onto the dance floor
At our wedding feast,
My feet will be ready
To keep time with yours.

Look at the flowers
I carry.
Each one was precious,
Lovely, and fragrant,
So I gathered them
To delight you
With their heady scent
And bright colors.
Have you ever seen
Such lovely blossoms?
They grew in my garden
Tended by my hands.
I grew them
From the seeds you gave me,
Watered and weeded,
Protected and plucked
To present to you
On our wedding day.

Oh my love,
I am wholly yours.
All I have done,
I have done
For you.
Today I bring you
The fruit of my days,
The culmination
Of my efforts
To make myself
Becoming
To you.
Here I come
To take your hand,
To be forever yours.

Wisdom's Path

Wisdom's Path

By: Joy Ortiz

She treads a path

Across the slough 

With torches burning bright. 

Her hand upraised 

To light the way,

She pierces through the night. 

The ground is soft

With deadly rot

To trap the careless foot. 

Her steps are firm

Above the bog

On marked and solid route. 

For eyes which seek

A higher road,

The stepping stones arise

To build a path

Of sure-foot truth

Which stands above the lies.

Each wanderer

Who finds himself

Confronted by the mire

Must either brave

Its fetid pool

Or search for something higher. 

In darkness deep

The whispers grow,

Confusing wrong and right. 

Well-meaning words

Bear shadows cast

By weak, uncertain light. 

If anyone

Would cross the slough

And reach the other side,

He must be sure

His path is firm

With Wisdom as his guide. 

She strides ahead

To light the way

With bright Integrity. 

She reaches back

Her torch of Truth

Which helps the blind to see. 

Her call rings out! 

She charges you,

"Come; follow in my tread.

Ignite your torch,

Reach out your hand,

And help the light to spread.

Fearless, boldly

Venture forth

In hope and blameless deed,

And every step

Will pierce the dark

For everyone you lead."

Press onward, then

With courage

As you follow what is right. 

When Wisdom

Makes a way for you,

Keep passing on the light. 

Charlie Hebdo

Yesterday I heard about the brutal killing at satirical cartoon office Charlie Hebdo in France.  The two gunmen killed twelve people while shouting praises to Allah, then they escaped.  This brutality is thought to spring from Charlie Hebdo's satirical cartoon depiction of the prophet Mohammed, as well as inflammatory jibes they made about ISIS and Muslim extremism.  France and the world mourn the tragic event.

Sometimes I really don't know what to think of Islam and other religions.  Jesus said, "I am the way, the truth, and the life.  No one comes to the Father but through me." (John 14:6)  However, countless people around the globe are finding light and purpose from religions other than Christianity.  Some zealots use their religions as excuses for brutality, such as ISIS.  Others promote peace and lovingkindness, such as Mahatma Ghandi.  In the same way, some Christians, such as the members of Westboro Baptist Church, use their religion as a weapon to wound their fellow man.  Others feed the hungry, clothe the naked, and minister to those in prison.  If there is both light and darkness in all religions, then how can we say that ours is better than any other? 

I find peace, hope, and goodness in following Jesus and trying to live according to the Bible's teachings.  It would be really easy for me to point to John 14:6 and say, "There is proof.  No other religion is valid."  Many Christians do that.  However, isn't God bigger than a verse in a book?  Isn't he more vast than our minds can comprehend?  Didn't Satan quote scripture while tempting Jesus to sin?  Wouldn't it be easy for us to wave our Bibles at the rest of the world today and testify against respect for the Muslim religion since the Charlie Hebdo gunmen were shouting praises to Allah while they killed people?  Is that what Christ would do?

Jesus came to bring living water to those who are thirsty.  What if Muslims aren't thirsty?  What if their religion is just as meaningful and satisfying to them as Christianity is to me?  What if Buddhists are already filled with peace and deep regard for life?  Are they wrong?  Am I wrong for not wanting to convert them to Christianity?  Is it wrong to say that I respect the religious beliefs of others as long as they aren't harmful to other people, animals, or the planet?

Jesus made bold claims about who he was and who God was.  He stood in the synagogue and quoted Jewish prophecies, then told the religious leaders that He was the one fulfilling them.  He defied some of the religious rules of the day, preached radical teachings, and went on an angry rampage in the temple.  Clearly He wasn't afraid of upsetting other people's religious beliefs to make his point, so why am I so hesitant to make waves?  Why do I feel such a strong urge to support and validate other people's beliefs?  Well, Jesus was the son of God, and I am definitely not.  He had a lot more authority to make claims about who God was and what people should do in response to that.  I'm just a woman with a Bible, trying to figure out how to live life with as much love as possible.

Still, God gave us his Holy Spirit to live inside of us and to help us discern what God wants to say today.  How much do I cling to the teachings and ideas of my youth, and how much do I listen to that inner voice?  How can I separate truth from the lies?

God, please help me to find truth and live according to it.  As I navigate the murky waters of religion, give me eyes to see you through it all.  Please comfort the families and friends of the Charlie Hebdo victims as they grieve this tragic loss.  Be in the midst of the political and religious fallout of this event.  May goodness and justice prevail.  The Muslim extremists honestly believe that they are doing Allah's work by killing "infidels."  Come, Lord Jesus, and bring light to the darkness.

If You Knew About Pain, Why Did You Make Us?

God, there are still many things I don't understand about what you were doing when you created humanity.  Could you see our future from the beginning?  Did you know that bringing us into existence would create great pain for everyone?  Did you know that being a human would hurt so much, that your first humans would choose to believe a lie and condemn the whole of our race to suffer so greatly that the only way to redeem us was for Jesus to come and sacrifice himself?

  It seems so twisted, yet it sounds a lot like parenthood. When Brandon and I decided to have a child, we conceived her in love and hope: love for humankind, love for the enormous potential of a human life, love for the best parts of each other, love for the earth; we hoped to bring a light into the world, a beautiful new baby, innocent and filled with wonder. She was born with free will. She has her own mind. She can make her own decisions, for good or ill, and that is wonderful!  Oh, the mystery of her!  What will she do?  Who will she be?  Where will she go?  What will she say?  Will she love me?  Will she love others?  Will she take care of the earth? 

I don't hold the controls to her mind. She does. I don't own her heart. She does. I don't get to decide her future.  She does. 

It is wonderful and terrifying. 

What if she intentionally hurts people?  What if she chooses laziness and selfishness?  What if she chooses bitterness instead of love?  What if she gets into drugs?  What if she hates and resents my influence on her life?  What if she ignores or rejects me?  What if she grows up and leaves, and I never see her again?  Would it be better if I had never borne a child?  Would it be better if I could somehow have invented a robot instead, one that I could program to never do anything wrong, to never hurt me or anyone else?  No. 

The joy comes from knowing that she can choose, and she still chooses me.  Every time she chooses forgiveness instead of bitterness, my heart swells with love and pride. When she spontaneously hugs me or crawls up into my lap just because she wants to, I feel so loved. When I watch her practice kindness and generosity without being ordered to do it, I am so proud and happy. I delight in her sweet nature and loving heart. 

She is still human, though. She makes bad choices sometimes. She hurts me. Sometimes I am ashamed of her behavior. Sometimes she makes me angry. Some of her choices are stupid and destructive, even when she knows better. She is stubborn. She is fearful. She makes messes, then leaves them for me to clean up.  

Seeing this potential for destruction and darkness within her makes it even sweeter to watch her choose goodness and light. When I see her wanting to be selfish but choosing to be generous instead, it brings me great joy. 

Is that how you feel about us, God?  Did you conceive us in hope and love?  Do you delight in our ability to choose?  Do you find a deeper satisfaction in us, with all of our flaws, than you could in a world of perfect, programmed robots?  Does this ability to choose make us wonderful, even though we cause great pain?  Is pain just the price of being freely chosen?  Does the greatest love come when you give up control of the beloved?  If you knew about pain, did you make us anyway because you also knew about love?

The Man Who Was Something

i.) Clown

A trifold mirror,
Lighted within
Showed a man transformed. 
Grease paints,
A faded red nose,
Chuck Taylor sneakers,
(Bright green), and
A plaid suit
With over-sized buttons

Made him
A clown,
When clowns were still
Innocent.
He was
The bringer of joy.
Painting on a face,
He became
Something.

ii.) Trucker

A young man
With empty hands
And emptier pockets
Faced the world,
Standing at the cusp of
Adulthood.
What did he know?
He could drive a truck,
Riding high above
Tiny cars,
Feeling the rumble of
A bigger engine,
The freedom
Of the open road.
With the windows down
And the radio on,
His left arm
Gained a suntan,
His wallet filled,
And the days slipped by
Like white dashes

On an endless highway. 

With a dusty trucker hat

Perched atop his curly head,

He whistled an old song

And cracked jokes on the CB radio.

He was

Something. 

iii.) Christian

A broken heart leaves an empty hole. 

What to do?

Hurt and searching,

A young man 

Stumbled over the doorstep

Of a church.

Loving arms 

Caught him. 

Kind faces

Welcomed him. 

Holy hands

Lifted him. 

He made friends,

Learned new songs,

And put all of his swear words

Up on a shelf. 

He bought a shirt with a collar

And a pair of Sunday shoes. 

He even found

The perfect wife. 

Dreaming of 

Missionary adventures and

Holy callings,

He really felt like

Something. 

iv.) Work Boots

When the shine wears off

Of brand-new boots

Sometimes a man

Finds himself

With two stiff hunks of leather

That rub his heels,

Blister his toes,

And just don't seem to fit. 

Sometimes, he tries on

Someone else's boots

To see if he made a mistake

In purchasing his own. 

Maybe he returns to throw them out,

But finds them willing

To stretch and yield,

To be forgiving.

He keeps them after all

To break them in,

Yet every day,

He nurses blisters

And curses the boots,

Wearing them

As little as possible,

Preferring to leave them

Neatly paired and polished

In the closet at home. 

Even boots that don't fit are

Something. 

v.) Engineer

What does a man do

When his life doesn't run smoothly,

When the world is big

And unruly,

When adulthood

Squeezes the joy

Out of every day?

He builds trains. 

Oh, the wonder

Of creating a world

Where everything is small,

Lovely,

Perfect in detail,

And functions

Just as it should!

Visitors to his apartment

Marveled

At the beautiful layouts,

Bitty buildings,

Mâché mountains,

Twisting tracks, and

Tiny trees. 

"You made all of this?!"

They would exclaim. 

Surveying his world

From beneath the brim 

Of his engineer hat,

The man knew

He was

Something. 

vi.) Bluegrass Musician

A young man loved music. 

He could play the guitar-

Nothing fancy,

Just a handful of chords

With a run or two

Thrown in 

Like a pinch of salt. 

What would he play?

Something easy,

Something alive,

Something happy. 

He became

A bluegrass player. 

With rhythm and drive,

A capo and six strings,

He could sing the saddest of stories

While making toes tap in time. 

Hands clapped, heads nodded,

People smiled and even danced. 

Up on the stage, 

He really felt like

Something. 

vii.) Farmer

Tired of rules, traffic, and suburbs,

A man bought some land,

A house and a barn,

Two horses,

A creek, 

And some tractors. 

He would be

A farmer. 

He built a bigger barn,

Bought a bigger tractor,

A plough, a disc, and a wagon.

In a rented field,

He ploughed the earth

In straight rows,

Covered the garbage

With fertile soil,

And planted

Corn and beans. 

Trucking all day, then
Tending his crops
Evenings and weekends,
He was a working man. 

When the corn poured out

From the combine's auger,

The man knew he was

Something. 

viii.) Cowboy

Saddles and spurs,

An old lariat,

Ten gallon hats,

And cowboy songs

Called to a boy,

Stirring his soul

With a longing for

Purple canyons,

Lonely plains,

Lowing cattle, and

Star-swept skies. 

The blood of a cowboy 

Ran in his veins. 

The song of a cowboy

Swelled in his heart. 

When he became a man,

The South Dakota plains

Lay far away in the west,

Yet he sang their songs,

Told their stories,

And dreamed of campfires,

Coyotes, and cattle calls. 

When he donned his Stetson,

Neckerchief, and boots,

When he yodeled and yipped,

It seemed like he was really a part of

Something. 

ix.) Dad

On a day in July,

Then September,

Then August,

A man became 

Dad. 

Protector, educator,

Disciplinarian,

Tickle-fighter,

Santa, 

Playhouse builder,

Go-kart track maker,

Hayride driver,

Rainbow mural painter,

And school board member,

He stood tall on his pedestal,

The hero. 

Watching his son play basketball,

Reading good report cards, 

Attending concerts,

Snuggling and laughing, and 

Watching John Wayne movies

Made being a dad really

Something. 

x.)  Truck Owner

Working for a cranky, old man

Year in and out

Made a man dream of

Self-employment. 

Freedom hung like a star,

Lofty and bright

Before his eyes. 

One day, 

The man left the trucking yard

For the last time

And bought a truck of his own.

A purple Kenworth beauty

With a swan on the hood

And a sleeper cab

Crowned the top of the cake

At his celebration party. 

Family and friends gathered

To wish him well. 

As he set off from home and family

In a truck of his own,

With open roads before him, 

The man swelled with pride. 

Finally he was going to become

Something. 

xi.) Praise Band Leader

A pastor asked a man

To lead the church praise band. 

Enthusiastically, the man

Began selecting music. 

He bought CDs,

An amp,

And two new guitars. 

He bought a multi-effects guitar pedal

And printed up chord sheets. 

Assembling a team,

He held practices,

And on Sunday mornings,

The drums and bass pulsed

As melodic guitars and keys

Filled the church 

With songs of praise, light, and hope. 

As the man strummed his guitar,

He looked out over a congregation 

Of worshippers with raised hands,

And he felt he was chosen for

Something. 

xii.) Biker

A young man owned a motorcycle,

But sold it when his children were small. 

Once they had grown up,

He remembered

Wind in his hair,

Freedom,

Sound, and scenery, so

He bought a Harley Road King. 

Flying down the road,

Leather-clad and goggled,

He gave the biker wave

To other riders

Like a secret handshake

In a club. 

With gold hoops in his ears,

Patches on his jacket,

Betassled handlebars,

And loud chrome pipes,

He rode to motorcycle rallies,

Poker runs,

And Biker Sunday. 

Astride his bike, he really was

Something. 

xiii.) Sometimes

Not all dreams last. 

Sometimes a man

Awakens

To a mountain of debt,

A barn full

Of silent tractors,

Stalls piled with junk,

Fields scattered with

Dead snowmobiles,

An abandoned wagon,

And an empty tractor cab

Drowning in tall, brown grass. 

Sometimes model trains
Sit in boxes,
Mâché mountains crumble,
And dust covers the tracks
Of layout pieces stacked in the barn. 

Sometimes society decides that
Clowns are creepy. 

Sometimes your adorable children

Become surly teenagers

Who challenge authority,

Defy the rules,

Or leave for college

Wearing studs and combat boots. 

Sometimes the trucking business fails

And all that remains

Is the Kenworth,

Lonely and forlorn,

With nowhere to go. 

Sometimes your boots still give you

Blisters

Because you just couldn't bear

To wear them

Until they really broke in. 

Sometimes the church hires

A new music pastor

To pack the pews,

And you end up

Back in one

Instead of on the team. 

Sometimes

Your life falls apart,

And you stumble back out of the church

With a broken heart. 

Sometimes

Sad songs

Are just sad songs

No matter how fast you play them. 

Sometimes

You're just a guy

In a cowboy hat

A long way

From South Dakota. 

But you know what?

I still think 

You're

Something. 

Sculpt Me

Sculpt Me

By: Joy Ortiz

Lord of me

In my depravity,

Here I am

Seeking

A better way

Than mine. 

I feel dead weight

Of things I hate

Separating

Me from my best self. 

Corruption tinges

My limbs. 

What is sin

And what is humanity?

What is innocence,

And what must be removed?

How much must I cut?

Must I cut?

Will you, instead,

Cut with a master hand

Every part of me

That bears no fruit. 

What if I am

A sick and twisted tree?

Cut me off. 

Come and change me

Even if it hurts. 

Make me into

Something new. 

I only want to be

Yours. 

What is happiness?

A gift from your hand,

Sweeter and richer

Than anything

I could craft for myself. 

What is holiness?

A sculpture,

A hidden beauty

Revealed by cuts

Delivered by a master

Who sees the form

Of loveliness 

Inside of dying wood. 

Refine me. 

Smooth away my roughness,

My impurity.

Even if it takes

Abrasion,

I will bear it. 

If I can't be

A growing tree,

Then make me

Something better,

Someone happy,

Someone holy,

Someone lovely,

With no rough edges,

Sickness,

Or sin. 

If I cannot grow,

Then sculpt me. 

The Pruning of the Rose

The Pruning of the Rose

By: Joy Ortiz

A man and a woman

Planted a rose bush

On a day in late summer. 

They put her in the ground

Behind a white-sided house

With red trim. 

At her feet were sweeping lawns. 

Above her stretched the branches

Of a split-hearted oak tree. 

She could hear the babble

Of a nearby creek. 

The summer sun was warm. 

She was happy. 

The man watered her with a garden hose. 

The woman pulled the weeds. 

They cared for her.

She put down roots. 

Over time,

The couple began to drift apart. 

When the man came

To water the rose bush,

His eyes looked empty. 

When the woman pulled the weeds,

She wept, then

Dried her tears

Before anyone could see them. 

Then she pulled more weeds. 

The man came less and less. 

The little rose bush

Grew thirsty. 

Every time he returned,

She rejoiced,

Soaking up every drop

He bestowed upon her. 

She looked for him. 

She longed for him. 

He did not come. 

The little bush heard

Whispers around the yard

That the white-sided house

Was being sold. 

One day the woman came

And dug up the rose bush,

Planting her in a plastic pot. 

She carried the pot to her car,

And they drove away

From the rolling lawns,

Sparkling creek, and 

Split-heart oak of home.

The car stopped at last

Before a yellow box house

With white plastic stairs. 

The woman trudged up the stairs,

Carrying the rose in her pot,

And placed it on the deck 

Of their new house. 

"Little Rose," she said

With as much cheer as she could muster,

"Here is your new home."

The woman came every day

To weed the flower pot.  

She pulled every weed

Until there were none. 

She pruned the bush

With sharp snips

Of garden shears. 

She clipped and cut

With an amateur's eye

Whatever looked dead 

Or unhealthy. 

The thorns pricked her fingers

As she collected the debris

And carried it to the burn pile. 

The rose bush resented this cutting. 

Who was this woman

To mangle and change her?

What right did she have

To take things away?

The cuts stung. 

Sometimes on the weekend

The man would come back

And carry her to his new house to visit. 

How she longed to stay

In his beautiful, sunny yard!

She pressed against the sides of her pot,

Wishing the man would plant her

In the ground once again,

But he never did. 

When each weekend drew to a close,

He loaded her into the car

And drove her back

To the yellow box house,

To the plastic porch, and 

To the pruning shears. 

As she sat on the porch 

And watched him drive away,

She hated the woman

In the yellow house. 

This woman who shaped her,

Confined her,

Removed every remotely imperfect thing

From her life,

And kept her from the man

Through her claim to joint custody,

Was the enemy. 

What can a rose bush do

To retaliate?

She refused to bloom

On the woman's sunny porch. 

The rose withheld her sweetness

From the enemy. 

She grew larger, sharper thorns. 

She covered herself with them

So that every touch

Produced pain. 

She refused to be a rose bush

For this woman. 

She grew only thorns. 

When she was with the man, however,

She bloomed. 

Joyful and free in his presence,

She opened up all of her sweetness,

Delighting the senses of all who beheld her. 

No one could see

The heavy thorns

Covered by all of her blooms. 

For years she lived this dual life,

Growing thorns to wound the woman,

Growing blooms to win the man. 

They were both part of her:

Sweetness and spite. 

As time passed, the bush matured. 

She outgrew her little pot,

And they transplanted her

Into a larger one. 

Every year the new pot

Grew heavier

Than the year before. 

She became harder to carry

Up and down the plastic stairs, so

The woman left the yellow box house

And moved her into town. 

There the rose pot rested

Right next to the driveway

In the sunniest spot. 

The woman planted 

Marigolds, begonias, and a sunflower

To keep the rose bush company

In her new yard. 

Still she refused to bloom. 

The woman grew concerned. 

She read books on cultivating roses. 

She fertilized. 

She watered. 

She pruned. 

She weeded. 

She treated for pests. 

She met with a master gardener

And showed him the rose bush. 

She was desperate. 

She had heard stories

Of how the rose had bloomed

For the man with the sunny yard. 

Why would it not bloom for her?

She reached out her hands

And touched the thorny stems. 

They pierced her. 

The rose was glad. 

As she looked at the spots of blood

On the woman's white hands,

She thought,

"Now she will send me back to him."

She was wrong. 

The man, when he came to get her

For their next weekend visit,

Carried the rose pot in his arms. 

She opened blossom after blossom,

Releasing all of her hidden sweetness

For him. 

"I want to stay with you," she said. 

"I hate living with the woman. 

All she does is try to make me bloom. 

You should see the things she does to me. 

She won't accept me as I am. 

She keeps trying to change me. 

She is so stupid. 

She even made herself bleed. 

She won't leave me alone. 

She doesn't understand me. 

I just want to be with you."

"I don't blame you," said the man. 

"That's why I left her. 

But you can't stay here. 

This garden is the wrong place 

For a young rose like you. 

You will do much better

In the soil of your native town. 

To transplant you now

Might damage your roots. 

Wait until you are older,

Hardier, 

Then you can live

Wherever you want."

The rose was disappointed, but

She trusted the man. 

When she returned home,

She resolved to do her best

To live well

While biding her time. 

Down the street from her new home

Was a botanic garden

Filled with a wide variety of plants. 

It was a place of education, show,

Society, and study. 

The woman in the town house

Took her rose bush

To the skillful gardeners there

To see what she would become

Under their learned influence. 

Also, the woman hoped

Her rose bush might bloom more

If she received the same water and sun

As other healthy, young plants. 

Sure enough,

In the company of her peers,

Under the greenhouse glass

Of the botanic garden,

The rose bush began to bloom. 

Yet every night

When she returned to the town house,

She closed her flowers tightly

And showed the woman

Only thorns. 

Frustrated and desperate,

The woman cried,

"You are a rose bush!

Where are your blooms?

You were made for beauty and sweetness!

Why do you shut yourself away

And wound me with your thorns?

Don't you know

That I love you?

I planted you

In the garden of our lost home,

In the soil

Of our best life. 

Your roots still live

In that same soil,

There, in your pot!

Can't you feel it?"

"Yes," spat the rose bush. 

"Yes, I feel it,

Weighing me down,

Binding me fast,

Constricting and constraining me.

I once had acres 

Where I could stretch my roots

Until you dug me up

And stuck me in this pot. 

I can't wait to get out of here. 

Once I am free,

I will find a place to plant myself

Where I can grow

And never touch this tainted soil again."

The woman was shocked by this venom. 

"I have done everything in my power

To give you the life you deserve. 

I have watered and weeded you,

Pruned and protected you,

Sheltered you from storms, and 

Shared you with the man who left. 

I have consulted experts in your care,

Taken you to master gardeners,

And glimpsed you blooming

In the company of your many friends. 

Dearest rose,

Beloved daughter,

Bloom!  Please, bloom for me!"

"I will not," said the rose. 

Over the weeks and years, 

The mother's plea continued:

"Bloom for me."

She whispered it. 

She shouted it. 

She choked it out through tears. 

She hissed it through clenched teeth. 

Lovingly, angrily, pleadingly, 

Commandingly, softly, desperately,

Hopefully, prayerfully, constantly

Came those three words,

Over and over,

Until the rose thought she would go mad. 

"Just leave me alone!" she cried. 

The woman would not. 

Finally, the rose, 

Weary of her mother's pleas,

Resolved to cover herself

With artificial blossoms. 

Every day,

When she returned home,

She carefully applied them. 

They were very high quality

With soft, velvety petals,

Beautiful to behold,

Almost indistinguishable 

From the real thing. 

She finished off her guise

With a spritz of rose-scented perfume. 

Beneath the fake flowers,

She clutched her real blooms tight

And hoped her disguise would work. 

It did. 

The woman was overjoyed

With the longed-for results. 

She praised each exquisite blossom

And drank in the fragrance. 

She was radiant with pride and joy. 

Her rose bush was blooming for her

At last. 

It was a lie, yet

A strange thing happened. 

Beneath the warm glow

Of the mother's praise,

The tight, hidden buds

Began to loosen,

And slowly,

Without even the rose herself noticing,

Real fragrance began to unfurl,

Betraying her inner sweetness. 

Under the cover 

Of artificial flowers,

The rose began to bloom. 

Then, tragedy struck. 

The rose developed

A deformity.

She would need 

Major surgery

To correct the defect

And allow her to resume

Healthy growth. 

She was afraid. 

She longed for the comfort

Of her father's sunny yard,

Yet she knew

She would be confined

To the house in town

While recovering from surgery.

Still she expected the man to visit

And console her

In her pain and isolation. 

She had her surgery. 

She went home. 

He did not come. 

Where was he?

She heard that he had come to town

And left again

Without even stopping by. 

She was crushed. 

Weeks passed,

Then months. 

Confusion became hurt. 

Hurt became resentment. 

Resentment became bitterness. 

Bitterness became thorns. 

The next time she saw the man,

She did not bloom for him. 

"Hello, stranger!" he said. 

She greeted him with quiet hostility. 

He felt the sharpness

And didn't like it,

But he ignored it

And pretended he felt 

Nothing. 

He busied himself

With other matters

And left her alone 

Again. 

Didn't he care?

Couldn't he see

That she was not the same?

Couldn't he feel

There was something wrong?

Didn't he wonder

Where her roses had gone?

She left

Sharper

And more bitter. 

She tried to drown 

The blight of rejection 

With a certain risky fertilizer,

But soon she developed

Tell-tale green bumps in the centers

Of each of her blooms.  

Her friends began to recognize

The unhealthy deformities

Of proliferation

And worry about her. 

She began to avoid the company of roses,

Especially the sweetest. 

They were only a painful reminder

Of who she had been,

Of who she had hoped she could become. 

Instead,

She found a field of thorn bushes. 

Next to them,

Her deformed roses were lovely. 

Her thorns didn't drive them away. 

They had thorns of their own. 

She thought,

"This is where I belong. 

This is who I am now."

She began to hate roses. 

She especially loathed the artificial flowers

She wore for her mother. 

"Why should I have to wear fake roses?

I am a thorn bush. 

Why pretend anymore?"

In disgust and anger

She threw the blossoms

At her mother's feet. 

"There!" she cried.

"There are your roses. 

They are fake. 

It was all a lie. 

I am a thorn bush,

And you are a fool."

The woman grieved

As she clutched her beloved rose bush,

Piercing her hands on the thorns. 

"No," she whispered. 

"You are my rose bush still."

One day, the man grew tired 

Of dealing with thorns. 

He drove to the house in town

To confront his daughter. 

He arrived with pruning shears in his hand

And matches in his pocket. 

He had come to cut her down. 

He showed no mercy. 

"If you can produce nothing but thorns," he said,

"Then I need to cut you down to size."

When he was done,

All that was left

Of the poor potted rose

Was five inches of bare cane. 

He left her a stump,

And he burned the rest of her to ashes. 

As she watched the tangled, 

Twisted branches burn,

She hated the man. 

What right had he

To come back now

And suddenly decide to care?

She had given him the best of her. 

He had neglected it,

Letting it turn,

Unnoticed, 

Into a worthless wreck

That nobody would ever call beautiful. 

Then, he had destroyed

Even that,

Leaving her with nothing. 

He ruined her life. 

It was all his fault. 

As she huddled, naked and small

In the pot of home's old earth,

She felt a hand grasp her

And pull. 

Up, up, up

She was lifted

Out of the pot

And into the air. 

A strong arm shook her,

And clods of dirt fell like rain

As the old soil broke free from her roots. 

"Do you know when it is best

To hard-prune a rose bush,

Little one?" 

The question came from a man

In old boots 

And faded jeans

With dirt-stained knees. 

He was grasping her

In the calloused and scarred hand

Of a gardener

Who refuses to wear gloves

Because he loves the feeling

Of dirt on his hands. 

His voice was kind, and

He was peering at her

With eyes that sparkled

Out of an open,

Sun-tanned face. 

She was too stunned to reply. 

"Well," he continued,

Answering his own question,

"You should hard prune a rose bush

When it is being planted.

The old, dead canes should be cut away.

It's the new canes that grow the roses. 

They do best

In soil where nothing has ever grown before,

So I'm mixing up a new blend

Just for you. 

I know it isn't what you're used to,

But this will give you a good place

To put down new roots. 

Aren't you tired

Of living in a pot

Full of old dirt?

Let me plant you

Somewhere better."

She shuddered with wonder and fear. 

Where was he taking her?

She hated the pot,

But could she really live

Outside of it

In the ground?

"Oh, child," said the man with pride,

"Just wait until you see 

The roses you will grow."

He lowered her into the earth. 

http://www.rosemagazine.com/pages/pruning.asp

http://www.heirloomroses.com/info/care/how-to/pruning/

http://www.heirloomroses.com/info/care/how-to/transplanting-roses/