by Marian Unn
*****
“Mother! Mother!” He ran to me, a big smile on his rosy face. His hands behind his back, he scrunched away from me as I moved closer.
“What is it?” I asked, peering over his shoulder. Falling backwards to try to hide his secret, he cried as he fell.
“Oh, Merek!” I reached for him, “Are you all right?”
“Yeah,” he sighed, pulling the scrunched roses from behind his back, his big eyes nearly overflowing with tears. “I-I worked so hard to pick them for you, but I crushed them!” He bit his quivering lip.
“Oh, Merek, they are beautiful! It is okay. It is okay. They are fine the way they are. It is your love that I am grateful for,” I said, accepting them from his little hand. Cuts and blood covered his little arms. Seeing this, I threw the roses at once without a thought. “Merek, you are bleeding!” I looked around for some ointment. Running to Jobel’s dresser I rummaged through the drawers.
After several minutes of rummaging, I had found it! Taking the wooden cover off the bowl I smiled with satisfaction at the medicine, brown and creamy. I sighed in relief, “Your Father thought it was a waste of money to buy this, but I told him one day we are going to need some ointment, and we are not going to have any because you did not want t-” I stopped. Merek’s eyes were entranced, staring intently at the crushed roses. He seemed paralyzed.
“Merek, what is wrong?” I bent down to him, but his eyes saw me not. “Merek?” I looked to him and then to the flowers. That is when I understood. “Oh, honey, I am so sorry!” Placing the ointment by his feet, I rushed to the roses. Careful to avoid their thorns, I pulled out a jug from the cupboard. “This will have to do for now, Merek. We do not have a vase to put them in.” Arranging them in what I perceived as nice enough for our humble little home, I returned to Merek who stared at the spot where the roses had once laid.
“Merek,” I whispered in the most motherly tone a girl of my young age could manage, “You know I did not mean to disregard your precious gift.” Rubbing the ointment onto his cuts, I was surprised he did not complain of any burning or stinging. “I am just more concerned about you rather than the silly flowers. That is not to say they are not important, but I would rather they be crushed than you, my son. For you are my most precious gift of all!”
Turning his head up from his pouting state, he wiped his dripping nose while squinting his eyes to hold back his tears, though they only poured out all the faster. “I- hic, I’m sorry-hic-I just wanted-sniff- t-to give you flowers, and I- sniff- ended up making you- hic- worry!” His tiny arms closed around me, and I smiled. Patting his head softly as the fluids from his face excreted themselves onto my dress, I continued to pat his dark hair. It was so much like Jobel’s. I could not help but play with it every now and again. Such dark and fine hair. Such a beautiful face. What I would not give to be able to stay like this forever, comforting my child, as is the duty of all mothers. However, I cannot bear to see him in such dismay, such is the pain of all mothers.
It was a new concept to me, motherhood. I was so young after all. My own mother was always telling me how motherhood was the most complicated of the natural tendencies of woman. She told me it took simple things such as love, patience, and above all else faith to raise a child well. Although such things are indeed simple, they were by no means always a given.
Jobel returned later that day and gave Merek the - “you gotta be a man and protect your family and not let them see ya cry” - speech. Granted he probably understood little of what that meant at the time, though it seemed to cheer him up. And together we admired the crushed little roses which bloomed into God’s beautiful masterpieces.
Truly flowers are God’s tears unfolded, and His majesty is undoubtedly revealed by their very nature.