Early in the spring I make a pilgrimage to the side garden, usually trailed by a persistent wasp. Since I pruned the roses in the winter, my prayer is that I didn’t inadvertently kill them. How blessed I feel when I see sunbursts of orange and red adorning the limbs. Life emerges out of death!   

The rose was the flower of Aphrodite, the Greek goddess of love and beauty. At first Christians shunned roses because they linked them with paganism, but later roses became closely linked with the Virgin Mary, who was called the Mystical Rose. White roses speak of her purity, red roses tell of her charity, and thorns symbolize her sorrows. In a sermon, St. Bernard of Clairvaux wrote: “Eve was a thorn that wounded; Mary a rose, soothing the passions. Eve was a thorn fastening death upon all; Mary a rose restoring all to the heritage of salvation.” 

As a child, I loved Our Lady’s feast days, when my classmates and I brought in roses and other flowers from home and placed them at the delicate feet of the statue of the Blessed Mother. Some of the tiny flowers we wove into a simple crown for her to wear. It was a child’s way of saying, “I love you.”  

Although I didn’t know this as a child, it was in the 13th century that St. Dominic instituted the rosary, symbolized by garlands of roses worn in heaven. The first rosaries were made from dried rose petals. Ever since I was old enough to pray, I have been praying the rosary or, as some say, “telling the beads.” As a child I took these prayers very seriously because I knew the rosary would help the souls of the faithful departed enter heaven. I dutifully prayed for my favorite uncle, the handsome Johnny Rosasco, who had died tragically young, leaving behind my Aunt Rita and two babies. Children make little distinction between humans and animals, so I also stormed heaven for my departed turtles. The worn holy card tucked away in my prayer book says it all: “Pray for Wormy and Flat-top.”  

On the day my mom died, my sister’s house was filled with the sweet fragrance of roses, although there were no flowers around. We called it a mystery at the time, but later I learned that when the Blessed Mother makes a miraculous appearance, she often brings the exquisite scent of roses with her. I wondered if perhaps Mother Mary was visiting us to announce: “Your mom is with Jesus in Heaven.”  

Mary’s humble acquiescence to the will of God changed the world forever. She is like the rose that gracefully surrenders itself to the strong winds and piercing rain of a storm. Mary surrendered again to God’s will when she experienced a mother’s worst nightmare, watching her beloved son die an agonizing death. Perhaps tears from heaven rained upon her, as she heard her son crying from thirst. Like a rose in a storm, she didn’t flinch but instead remained standing at the foot of the cross.  

Each May, when my roses turn their lovely faces to the sun, I think about Joseph and Mary, who were the first to behold the visage of Jesus, who is called the “light of the world.” Her life reminds us to keep our faces tilted toward the light, no matter how bad things may get. In times of trouble, when we thirst for mercy and love, the Mystical Rose assures us that after the harshest pruning, there will come new life.