I recently read a beautiful book called “Tending Roses” by Lisa Wingate. In it a grandmother is writing to her granddaughter. This is one of her letters:
“An old woman told me she wanted the gardens cleaned around her house, and if I would do the work I might have flower bulbs and starts of roses as my pay. My husband pretended to think the idea rather foolish as I was needed on the farm, but he was patient with me as I worked throught the early spring, cleaning gardens and moving starts to a newly tilled bed by our farmhouse. He was older than I, and I think he understood that I needed something of my own.
Those roses were the finest things I had been given in my life, and I tended them carefully all spring. As the days lengthened, the roses grew well and blossomed in the summer heat, as did I. Coming in and out of the house, I would look at them — something that belonged to me, growing in soil that belonged to him.
Even passing folk admired my roses, for my work made the blooms large and full. Once, a poor hired lady came with a bouquet of roses and wildflowers clasped in her hands. She told me that her children had sneaked into my garden and picked them for her, and that they would be punished. I bade her not to scold the children, for I was proud to give them this gift. She smiled, and thanked me, and told me that, with so many children, she had no time for tending roses.
I did not understand her words until my own children were born. When the first was a babe, I took her outside and let her play in an empty wash barrel so I could have time for tending my roses. I was often cross with her cries while I was at my work. As she grew, and as my second child was born, I understood what the hired lady had told me — that motherhood leaves no time for selfish pleasures. Only time for tending others.
My roses grew wild and died as I busied myself with feeding and diapering, nursery rhymes and sickbeds. I missed those bright blooms that had been mine and felt it unfair that I must leave my hard work there to die. But I did not think of it overmuch. My mind and heart were occupied with the sorrows and joys of motherhood.
The day came, it seemed in no time, when my children were grown and gone, and I again found time to tend the roses. I could labor over them from dawn until dusk with no children to feed, no husband needing meals, and few passerby on the old road. My flowers have come thick and full and beautiful again. From time to time, I see neighbor children come to pick them when I am silent in my house. I close my eyes and listen to their laughter, and I think that the best times of my life, the times that passed by me the most quickly, were the times when the roses grew wild.”
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