The last rose of summer

He was praying in a certain place, and after he had finished, one of his disciples said to him, ‘Lord, teach us to pray, as John taught his disciples.’  He said to them, ‘When you pray, say: Father, hallowed be your name. (Luke 11:1-2)

Red roses have dwindled to a few on the west side of the house. Once, there were dozens. Now, I can count their number as I steer the car into the garage. Each one grows more precious as the days pass, stirring my heart to praise the Beauty to whom they sing in silent witness.

A single rose strains high above the rest, struggling to open fully, hungry for heat on these cool October days. I cheer her labor, hoping there will be enough time and warmth for her to fulfill her promise before frost stills her song and wilts her splendor.

I watch and hope for her for she speaks my hidden truth. I, too, long for the warmth of a sun that once warmed me.

Warmth and light embraced me when I was an anxious, insecure child, walking with confidence into only one place in my entire world, the door of St. Paul Lutheran Church in Warren, Il. I was safe there, wanted, secure and home, taken in by souls who had no idea how good the warmth of their normal, ordinary, casual welcome felt to me.

Taken in—small words, but they keep returning as I think of those days. I was taken in, welcomed in this community of hearts, who left their homes every Sunday to gather at the stone church on the west edge of town to sing and pray, listen to the pastor, drink coffee and talk about the weather or whatever was happening in our largely insignificant little village.

But it was not insignificant to me, not then or now. It was the breath of life, the warmth of the sun, water for my thirsty soul.

I remember their smiles decades later; I suppose because I needed them so badly. I still hear their voices, laughter in the narthex, serious tones in Sunday school rooms, gentle urgings for us to open our mouths to sing or recite the catechism—but also to quit poking each other, sit down and behave.

I belonged and knew l belonged on a level far deeper than consciousness. I long for this warmth and light as I make my way further into (gulp) the eighth decade of life. I still have so much I want to be and live and love and give, and I long to feel taken into the light and warmth of a loving community, feeling alienated, as I do, from the faith community that was once home.

I know I am not alone in this.

Perhaps that is why I feel a deeper yearning in the disciple’s plea, ‘teach us to pray.’ I wonder if what they really wanted was—not simply to pray—but to feel inside the warmth and love of the Holy Mystery within whom Jesus communed, the one he called Father, the one he revered and who revered him.

Seeing Jesus at prayer, perhaps they wanted to feel the encompassing embrace of the divine essence as he did, to be enveloped in one all-embracing love, so that their hearts might open and their lives unveil the beauty our loving Creator had sown in their souls.

Each of them … and me … like the last rose of summer, incomplete, not fulfilled, longing to sing one more song of praise for the wonder of light and love, warmth and beauty, before October goes.