What I Saw on My Walk: What We Sow

Roses at the edge of an empty lot, where a house once stood.

There’s a house in my hometown that I always loved: a house on a corner lot, with well-tended gardens and a porch swing. For years, I passed it daily in my car as I took our sons to middle school and then high school, and I also walked past it several times a week during my long dog-walks. The house was cottage-like, with a deep porch, and I imagined it would be a lovely place to pop in for a friendly cup of tea as twilight approached. It was painted often enough that it always looked fresh, and the grounds were always tidy. I have no idea who lived there or what went on inside the house, of course, but it was one that I noticed every time I passed by. It was just so cozy and cute!

Last summer, right about this time of year, I went away for a month of silence and spiritual direction in the form of the Ignatian Spiritual Exercises, and in my first days home after that life-changing experience, I happened to walk Iona past that house. To my shock, it was in the process of being taken down, though at first I wasn’t sure it was actually a demolition situation. Why would such a seemingly well-kept house be razed, even if the owners had moved on or died? Even with the walls stripped away, it looked like it had good bones. Maybe they were just doing a massive renovation? But no. The folks from the local salvage company soon were on-site, and the entire sweet home just (*poof*) disappeared, leaving an empty lot ~ like a missing tooth in a familiar smile.

Oh, some wood and other scraps remained for a while, but eventually even those were removed. I speculated: do you suppose someone “from away” swooped in with their mythical piles of cash and bought that darling little property just to demolish it and build something far fancier in its place? Who knows, but nothing more ever happened there, and over time the gaping hole that house left became part of the landscape of the neighborhood. By now, a year later, my memories of what used to be there are a bit wispy. I remember the feelings the house prompted in me far more than the actual details. (Was it … red? I think so. And I remember noticing that the dutiful homeowner raised the porch swing to ceiling-height every year when winter crept in, so that it wouldn’t be damaged by weather in the off-season.)

I drove past that lot again this morning as I took Mom to a medical appointment, and it was then that I noticed the roses. The lot is empty, the home is gone … but still there is a profusion of roses, still doing their rose-y thing. I have no idea what (if anything) happened to the people who lived there, but I hope that whoever it was who cared enough to plant those roses knows that they are still adding a touch of beauty to the neighborhood.

On the way back from the appointment, I pulled over to the side of the road to take a quick photo, but nothing I snapped quite captures what it looks like in real life. I guess the perspective is off, so you’ll have to trust me: those roses are thriving, and they are lovely. The unknown gardener, the unseen advocate for beauty, is still present in those roses. Maybe that’s a metaphor for how they lived their lives, or maybe the garden they planted was more of an exercise in ego, or wanting to look good to the neighbors; that’s going to have to remain a mystery to me. But whether they created beauty for altruistic reasons or to show off their gardening prowess, the roses remain, and they are quite beautiful.

Here’s what the whole thing has me thinking: life is short. Things that seem solid still may not last. Stories that we imagine may not be the whole truth. But it also prompts this question for me … what am I planting? What will continue to grow, and thrive, and add beauty even after I’m gone? How and where shall I plant metaphorical roses in this world that is so starved for loveliness?