My office window looks out over our front lawn and rose garden, into the neighborhood. I can see neighbors coming and going... Peg making her daily mail delivery rounds....assorted strangers leaving cards and fliers on our front porch. Ours is a quiet weekday street, though, owned by the business of birds more than people.
Loved ones know that I have a 25-year passion for growing and admiring roses. I confess that I admire my own roses, more often and more deeply, than other roses....the luscious colors and scents, vibrant sturdy health, shape and even the stubborn lower branches. Maybe it's because I know the history of each rose bush...the failures and successes, the times when my patience was rewarded. I hate to tear out a rose bush...prefer to give it ample seasons and watering strategies to blossom. To be honest, I can't recall giving up on a rose bush. They've always eventually blossomed, each in their own way.
Our garden has two new rose bushes this year, both germinated from seeds dropped by other bushes into the fertile bed. Rather than pull up the tiny messy shooters last year, I watered and fed them, hoping for long-shot survival. In January, I pruned them back to just a few inches, and both have responded with healthy growth. Neither has yet sprouted a bud, but it'll be fun, in time, to know the colors of their blossoms.
Outside my window right now, the roses are an exuberant riot of Spring color....fresh butter yellow, whisper-pink white, erotic deep velvet red with a heavy hypnotic fragrance. Andrea's favorite is rose is Joseph's Coat, with a brilliant orange blossom that crescendoes into brightest gold at its center. Annually, Ron and neighbors praise an unusual light brandy peach rose as the most beautiful ever. Sometimes, I think it might also be my favorite , but then...it's hard to choose between such beauty.
When I see our frontyard rose garden, I see living miracles born of both my work and faith. God's miracles, not mine.