When my mother passed away in 2006, I transplanted the miniature roses I had given her for Mother’s Day from a pot on her front porch to a new home in my backyard. I would look out the window at them each morning just to say hello. It gave me a sense of peace knowing that, even though she was not here physically, I could still have her with me in spirit.
A few years later, my oldest son was deployed to Afghanistan. He left his wife, pregnant with twins, in Corpus Christi with a plan to return shortly after their birth. Sometimes, however, the universe has different plans, and during one of the hottest summers on record in Texas, my daughter-in-law went into labor three months early. The risk of childbirth at 23 weeks cannot be overstated. We all would have been more comfortable if their chances of surviving without any long-term permanent damage were better. Both children had complications. My grandson had to have open heart surgery the day after he was born.
I had a lot of things on my mind that summer, and I noticed one day that I had neglected my mother’s roses to the point that I feared I had lost them. It was about six weeks after my grandchildren were born, and they were still in the NICU. There remained a great deal of uncertainty about what the future might hold. My son had come home briefly but was needed back in Afghanistan.
When I peeked at my mother’s roses that morning, I could see no sign of life. The leafless stems looked dry and brittle. It was one more bit of sadness I didn’t think I could bear. I stepped out in the backyard, and as I walked toward the roses, I caught a glimpse of something encouraging. At the base of the roses, there was the smallest sign of life. Two tiny blossoms had emerged on an August day when the temperatures hit 106 degrees. The delicate, pink blossoms—one for each of the twins—had sprouted from the limbs with a will to live that made me sure of one thing: the twins were going to be all right.
Two tiny rose buds. One for each twin.
The unlikely blossoming of two little rosebuds from an all-but-lost rose bush during the height of one of the hottest summers in Texas while our twin grandchildren fought to survive in the NICU may be viewed in several ways. For some, it’s nothing more than an interesting story that illustrates an encouraging coincidence. For others, it proves the universe works in ways beyond our awareness or comprehension. Some others may see it as proof of faith in a benevolent God who intervenes in subtle ways to communicate encouraging messages. For me it was a little of all of that. But more importantly, it signified a feeling I had about the essence of my mother expressed in her roses which continued to survive, and thrive, in my backyard.
We are only on this earth for a while. Every day, when we wake up, we can make a choice to create something positive. Many people think that creating is only about being an artist or, perhaps, working in business to solve problems or coming up with great ideas for other purposes. And while these are certainly creative accomplishments, we should also recognize that there are people who spend a big part of their lives making the world better by simply being who they are. They love unconditionally and show it without restraint. They reach out to others to lend a hand. They embrace our differences and nurture acceptance. They choose to add something positive to each day.
"...there are people who spend a big part of their lives making the world better by simply being who they are."
Many creative artists and businesspeople leave behind the works they created while they were alive. Others simply leave behind the essence of who they were on this earth and what they meant to others. For those whose positive essence lingers—even if it is not expressed in such tangible objects as a meaningful rose bush—we should consider their creation as an equally important contribution to this world. This is true no matter how small or large the contribution may be.
I’m happy to say that fourteen years later, our twin grandkids are happy, healthy, bright, talented, and have promising futures. The message I received from the spirit of my mother while they were still in the NICU turned out to be very real. Everything ended up being okay.
Dusty Crocker, PhD is Professor of Professional Practice at Texas Christian University.