I saw her memory, kissed and folded tightly with love as the child in me feigned the reality that such could be happening;
as the fair appointed dawning neared, bringing to mind once forgotten years where the
broken sunlight fell on the dim cathedral walls of my heart.
My dearest one of all was like a passing tale already told, lying in the cold regions
of my broken soul, vestured in a lost smile I thought would never come back to me except
through the innocent faces of a child, in our daughter and son.
As wind upon grains blowing away I felt the faint grasp of her hand passing fairly into the night, apart from me yet with Him, waving goodbye to the children of her
heart, more full than a rose can bloom, brimmed upon a blood red carpet in the children's room.
She, with I and all her children nearby, passed into that dark and slender spiral where
shadows fail to produce shades of silhouettes for the light that's there, far surpassing any
darkness here; where she stood in the lights of God in paradise as she slipped into the wake
of the Son, from the death of this mortal clod.
As her spirit unfastened, hanging in the sky and poised on the wings of life as a
sunset brightening near the edge of the horizon in just that part of the monotone of
evening when all is stilled to those whom are still, I saw her fly. She climbed upon
the wind with her faith feet and tossed her life to me with one last will, softly speaking;
"Lord make my husband a godly man to raise our children right."
As she did, she stretched her arms to the rock inscribed that wrought the strength of God and
quietly whispered to me, "All things work for the good to them that love God and are called
according to His purpose, Scott." And I saw her soft hand pausing, resting on mine as her
bosom raised and lowered for the last time, at dusk's end one December night.
In that silence, as the darkness arched over me it's sadness, He reached to me with all the
stuff and substance God is made of, scattering the sting of death before our eyes, returning
her to us to bud as Children Of The Rose, lighted in a love that boxed the darkness until we
had won, made whole by the Rose of Sharon.
Children Of The Rose © Copyright 2003 ~ by Chaplain Scott.
Written March 4, 2003. 2:04 AM CST.
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