As I came home, I passed them.
They were so strong, as I stood several feet away, their aroma touched my sense of smell and my emotions.
Their aroma is so sweet, so delicate, and yet strong enough to catch you and take you miles away in a daydream of a soothing place.
The dishes are all over the counter.
In the sink, on the table, some in other rooms where we live, they sit.
The dirty clothes make a nice padding to our feet in certain places.
The lists are long, and the trials will come.
Some have already come, and have left an invisible trail of stains where tears fell and penetrated the floor beneath our feet.
Our home is a humble one, with many in our culture far superior in style, cleanliness, decorations afforded, and luxuries we may only talk about having on a lazy Sunday afternoon when fantasy can sometimes overtake us.
But on HIS day, what a silly thing to spend time this way.
The poor without homes, as the Savior who scarcely rested His weary head, are often in torment, often alone, often deserted by us as we drive by in our functional automobiles, on our way to not only nourishment, but to eat what to them, would be a delicacy.
A rose can be so much to us, if we have nothing.
It could be a poor man’s treasure or only joy.
And yet, this simple (not in its properties but in its abundance as something we may find ourselves passing every day) rose is merely a fraction of what I have.
They are in my yard because someone else planted and nurtured them.
My yard, leading to a home full- as full as can be, of Earthly treasures and comforts, of which I am undeserving, and of which I fail to see every day, as I could also easily forget the roses if I dared not turn my head to the right or the left.
The water runs freely as I turn it on.
The machine cleans my clothes, and I have so many to do, because we are abundantly granted clothes for covering.
Warmth, fire to make bread, a hard surface to walk on, enclosed from rain and wind…
oh yes, the treasures are more than can be said, and my wicked, selfish heart forgets to be thankful.
I see their houses, and try to follow their trend.
I, too, tell myself I need this or that…
want- more appropriately the word.
There are weeds in the yard to be pulled,
goals of which even the surface has yet to be altered…
but my children play and laugh.
I want to read the books I just got for them.
I want to listen to the beautiful songs we can hear…
I want to sing.
My beloved gives that I may have health and happiness, rest and reward for my labors.
My beloved gives when I have not done as I ought with my duties, and have squandered, he still rewards.
The house needs so much and there are many chores to be done,
but the roses may not be here tomorrow.
I must smell them today.
The rain and wind, from which we are sheltered, may cast them to the ground in pieces,
and only today may I be able to learn from them.
Stop.
Smell.
See.
The roses may not be here tomorrow.
