Beloved,
The week after Emma’s death, one of you kindly gave us a rosebush to plant in her memory. One day, it will bloom with beautiful, sweet-smelling flowers that will remind us of that beautiful and sweet little girl. But right now, it is nothing more than a short, prickly, and rather unattractive stalk. If it hadn’t come with a greenhouse tag and from a friend graciously sharing in our grief, I might have thought someone had played a prank on us—gifting us a weed. As I planted it, I found it hard to imagine that gorgeous pink roses could, or would, break forth from this thorn-covered stem.
It has become a parable for me as I continue to wrestle with Emma’s death. This tragedy is all thorns, and those thorns have cut deep into the hearts of many. Yet in the midst of this ugly, painful providence, there is an inexplicable, quiet confidence that, somehow, something beautiful and sweet will blossom out of the stench of this loss. Looking at this flowerless bush, I find myself crying, “O God, bring life out of this death! Bring flowers amid the thorns!” And through the tears, there is a settled certainty that He will.
Emma loved to garden and had quite a little green thumb. Not me! In fact, before I could plant Emma’s rosebush, I had to dig up a dead boxwood where it would be planted—a boxwood that died under my care (or lack thereof). Landscaping is not one of my great gifts, but there is now a kind of anxiety in my heart to ensure that this rosebush lives and thrives. I want it to bloom as fully as possible. So, I bought the best soil I could find (it’s even organic!) and am committed to tending it carefully, giving it everything it needs to flourish.
Last year, I read Tim Challies’ book Seasons of Sorrow, written in the wake of his son’s sudden and unexpected death. He described suffering and grief as a stewardship entrusted to us by God. It is what we do in our thorn-infested seasons that will determine whether those painful providences blossom into something beautiful. Among all the people in my life, few exude the spiritual maturity and steadfast faith in Christ like my brother Ben—Emma’s dad. I’m confident that by God’s grace, he and his wife will steward this suffering in such a way that it does not become like my dead boxwood, but rather like a thriving rosebush in full bloom.
But make no mistake: when the flowers finally bloom, the thorns will still remain. That bush will be as prickly as ever. But as Emma’s death is stewarded through faith in the crucified and risen Christ, roses will bloom—in God’s perfect timing. And oh, how I long for that day when I can lean in and pull one to my face, feel the tender petals, and breathe in the serene fragrance—even if, in the process, the thorns tear into me afresh.
So I wait, and watch, and tend, and pray.
Roses are coming. I can almost smell them. Yours in Christ,
Pastor Nick