A while back, my dear friend Annie sent me plants for my birthday – a purple calla lily, two white orchids, and a yellow rose bush, all miniatures – tiny and perfect. I couldn’t believe they had survived the trip. I replanted them in their own little pots. They kept their hothouse blooms for a while, dropped them, and then began adjusting to new pots and a new home. I loved them all, but this is about the little yellow rose bush. Little Rose.

Oh, there have been other roses in my life. Once upon a time, I lived in a house with a big yard, and I planted pink roses along a fence. They were spectacular. People would stop and stare at them. When I moved, I worried that the new owners wouldn’t give them the love I gave them. I fed them, I watered them, I trimmed them, I talked to them. And, like all living things that are loved, they bloomed and bloomed and bloomed.

I still miss my glorious pink roses.   

But back to Little Rose and the miniatures. The calla lily thrived, as did the orchids. But Little Rose, the tiniest and most fragile, struggled. My apartment doesn’t get a lot of sun, and I worried she wasn’t getting enough light. So, I put her outside. I live in Pasadena, California now, where things grow in glorious abundance. Bougainvillea blooms all year round in stunning colors. Jacaranda trees, heavy with lavender flowers, (Look them up if you’ve never seen one!) saturate the air with their perfume. It’s a flowery, tropical paradise. So, I figured if Little Rose was going to make it, she’d make it on my terrace. It doesn’t have sun all day, but mornings are cheerily and splashy sun filled.

One day (So busy, right?), I forgot to water her, and she drooped. Some leaves turned yellow. Also, something was taking little bites out of her leaves. I felt bad, but I repented, watered her faithfully, and gave her some food. After a while, I noticed that she had a bud. I didn’t believe it: a tiny, tiny yellow bud. And then, I noticed something else. The little bud had started to stretch out toward the sun. Little Rose, with her little bud, was reaching for the light.

When I took this picture, I realized that I had not even given her the prettiest pot (She’ll get a new one, as soon as she’s stronger, I promise.). Little Rose didn’t even have that going for her. But when I saw her reach for the sun, my heart swelled and filled up to the brim. There she was, tiny and in trouble, but striving, striving, reaching for the light. She was life, insisting on life, insisting on beauty. On the best that was in her.

She made me ask myself, can I do less than this little living thing? Can I live stanchly and resolute, even when I feel small and weak? Can I reach for the light when troubles and fears take little bites out of my soul? I’ve had my share of bites lately and there are times when I feel down. The world is not at its best just now. There are wars. Bitter politics. Some health problems. But then, I look at Little Rose, doing her best beside bigger, stronger ferns and geraniums. Undaunted.

Every day I go out and spend a moment with her. I touch her. I thank her for showing me life in all its wonder, in all its promise. I watch her strive every day, stretch every day, and reach out toward the light. Her petals are open now. She has taught me that in that stretching, in that striving, in that turning to the Light of God, there is hope.  

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Helen Delaney is the author of The Messenger: The Improbable Story of a Grieving Mother and a Spirit Guide, and The Well: Two Women, Two Thousand Years Apart, Connected by a Pandemic, Slavery, and a Son. Both are available on Amazon.