Wild Rose

She had a sort of dignity that was grounded and yet far above us. She was beautiful and her eyes always glistened with laughter. There are no amount of words that can tell of her love and generosity or do her character justice.

Every year, we drove to see them and every year she was there. A constant of my childhood that I could count on. For the week, we’d rest in her humble home. A patchwork palace in the prairie.* When I was little we romped and ran about for the week, not worrying about the dirt under our fingernails or the ratted hair that would ensue. We’d make up games and laugh. As I grew older, we still romped a fair share, but the physical place shifted for me. What was once a imaginative playground became a safe refuge — a place far away from the cares of the world and my own little life, fears, and confusions. I could be. and I could do that because she opened up her home with no pretense or reservation.

Even as a little girl, she seemed somehow perfectly placed and misplaced all at once. My sister says that she was
always like a wild rose
A beauty that struggled and grew in the wiles and the wind
Of Montana wheat
The thorns did not hurt you, but held you up
And with your faith you did not wither
You were my grandma but also my friend
Shining bright in the prairie sun*

The last time I saw her, we sat in the recliners in what was once her little farm house. She told me about her past — of growing up and what life had been like. I leaned in to listen better, and her gentle voice would dance as it formed pictures of the past. They weren’t idyllic or embellished — but they were pictures of greatness. A past I would never know but would come to love. 

A few years later I returned to that little farm house out on the prairie to say goodbye. Over the week I was there, we spent time going through old pictures and letters, and I got to know her all over again. I was in the attic alone one afternoon sorting through some old boxes and I came upon one of her journals. I sat down on the wooden floor boards and wept as I read her beautiful cursive recount her latest visit to the doctor and the surprising news of some health issues she was facing. She didn’t want to tell her husband, for fear he would pursue medical options they couldn’t afford. She decided that she would seek more orthodox treatment.

And then she talked about death. Not out of fear, but out of a place of perfect peace. She knew that she was in the hands of a loving Savior, and while she did not fear leaving earth, she regretted that she had achieved so little for Him. She feared she hadn’t lived to the potential of her talents given to her by God and wanted additional years, only to serve her Lord. She ended her journal entry with words that reflect her character, heart, and love for people:

“With each passing day, I will try to accomplish the the tasks set before me — to provide a home where everyone is welcome — a refuge from the cares of the world. I will pray daily for family and friends, and will continue to search out God’s word and seek His will and His face. I will seek His help in forgiving anyone who has wronged me or caused me unhappiness, and I will endeavor to have more love for everybody.”

That is what being a secret person is all about.