A grace flower

In the midst of a long walk at dusk on a perfect summer evening, I spot a rose. Creamy, pink, full-bodied, silky petals, it rests alone on its bush. I'm walking fast, with Mom, and yet my feet brake quickly. Coming close, I cup it gently in my hands and lean in, inhale deep its scent. So sweet. Its fragrance, I want to store it in my nose's memory forever. But it's here, on this bush, and as I step away the memory will quickly fade, and I can't take it home with me. So I stoop again.

When it's cupped in my hands, I feel I'm cupping the face of grace. I stare, mesmerized by this grace flower. And I breathe deep again. Life slows, and all that is in this moment is the scent of grace and the silky head of this rose against my skin.

It seems a beautiful reminder placed at the end of a week spent pondering grace. Life is not roses, we know this well. But this grace flower speaks to me: roses can always be found along the roadside of life, beckoning us aside for a moment to see, feel, breathe the fragrance of grace.