ZEBULON, NC (Catholic Online) - My husband can attest to the fact that I haven't a single green appendage, i.e. green thumb; however, I've planted rose bushes at every house we've shared.  Planting them was easy, but the rest I left to nature.  Typically, my minimal efforts had produced results to match.  

When we moved four years ago, I again planted some new rose bushes just beside our new, front porch and relocated a resident climbing rose bush to the Marian garden.  Last year, having purchased two apple trees, I felt compelled to try a little harder and so I rummaged through the shed and found a container of plant food.  Food in hand, I circled my way around the yard sprinkling here and there our azaleas, apple trees, and my rose bushes. 

I'm not really sure why I have this affinity for rose bushes, but just the thought of them brings three beloved people to mind.  My mother had some roses planted just across the driveway from the side door (the door we actually used to go in and out as opposed to the front door that only strangers entered through).  Then there is the story of St. Therese, the Little Flower, dropping roses to those who ask for her intercession.  A grammar school teacher first taught me about her and my college roommate renewed my interest in this dear saint years later.  In fact, I offered a novena to the little saint in those hours after our first child, Dimitri, was born when the details of his illness began to unfold.  And, of course, roses always evince a connection to my Blessed Mother.  

Most of the time when I bring blooms in, I offer them to our Lady by placing the vase on our kitchen shrine.

This spring those rose bushes decided to reward my little efforts in so many more ways than I understood at first.  Each in turn, the tall, thorny, green stalks began to produce tiny buds that erupted into beautiful flowers of yellow and then red.  

The timing of this was something of a gift in and of itself.  I began to spy the changes during the weeks surrounding the loss of my husband's job and the loss of our dear expected baby, who was still cradled in my womb.  

That is when my secret, daily ritual started.  Waking up each morning, I would walk through the house opening windows and doors before stepping out onto the front porch which I'd cross in order to peer over the railing to see what those bushes had in store for me that day.  Simple and perhaps a bit silly, but those bushes filled me with an inexplicable hope and peace.  The dilemma for me then was in deciding whether I wanted to cut those blooms and carry them inside to enjoy or allow them to remain on the stem, where their beauty might last a bit longer.

At the end of April when the roses first made their appearance, we had the privilege of being godparents to our friends' son.  In thanksgiving for this blessing and that of our expected little one, I carried those first blooms to Our Lady of Czestochowa and placed them at her shrine in St. Joseph's Catholic Church.  It was an easy offering on my behalf.  Although I admit, I was humbled measuring my tiny bouquet against the two matching arrangements that decorated the table.   To the eye, my gift looked unimpressive, but I knew that I hadn't retained a single blossom for myself.   My satisfaction was derived in knowing that I gave everything I had.

During the next few weeks, our personal trials increased and so did my daily ritual.  Then, one particular Thursday came.  We'd discovered the baby's death some days before, but I was still clinging to the hope of a miracle.  Knowing that Lazarus had been raised and so too had Jarius' daughter been woken from her eternal slumber, I was praying that death would not win again.   Since my husband was home, we had the rare opportunity of attending Thursday morning Mass as a family. 

As we rushed around preparing nine people to leave by 7:30am, I'd not had time for my peaceful ritual.  But, the thought washed over me that I needed to bring today's blooms to my Mother.  I headed out to quickly clip and plant today's bounty into a vase for transport when I was overcome by sadness and then anger. 

There they were in all their splendor, five roses.  Five, I counted them again, five.  

In an instant, without a moment's hesitation, I realized there was one bloom for each of our five heavenly children.  One for Dimitri, one for Mary, one for Simeon, one for Philomena and now one for Matthew, too, how could this be?

"No, no," I wanted to scream, "You can't have five from us. You have four already, you don't need this fifth soul." 

I wanted to pretend it didn't mean anything, but I knew better.  I wanted to leave those ...