Regional Synod of Canada - Reformed Church in America

Pioneer Christian Monthly

Date - May/86

Contributor - Freda Witteveen

Title - Women

Topic - Women

The story which follows this short introduction is a poignant tale of mother love and enduring friendship which I feel may be appropriate this month as we observe the Festival of the Christian Home. It is entitled "These Are For You" and was originally printed in The War Cry.

In our homes, in our businesses, while we are at school let us make love our airs pure, unselfish love as exemplified by the One whose blood was shed even for us.

At the time my son was born, I shared a hospital room with a young woman who bore a son on the same day. Partly because my parents owned a florist shop, I received a number of bouquets, and the room was filled with the lovely scent of roses.

" This is like being in a flower garden," my roommate, Ann, said as the seventh floral arrangement was brought in and placed on my side of the room. But I was beginning to feel uncomfortable for no flowers arrived for her. She sat on the edge of the bed and leaned forward to admire the latest bouquet.

"I really am enjoying every minute of this," Ann said. "Wasn't I the lucky one to get you for a roommate?"

I still felt uncomfortable, however if only there were some magic button I could push to take away the sadness in her eyes. Well, I thought, at least I can see that she has some flowers.

When my mother and father came to see me that day, I quietly asked if they could send a bouquet to her. "Of course," my father said, "we'll get one this afternoon."

The flowers arrived just as Ann and I were finishing supper. "Another bouquet for you," she said, laughing. "Not this time," I said, looking at the card. "These are for you."

Ann stared at the flowers a long time, not saying anything. She ran each of her fingers across the pale blue ceramic bootee and lightly touched each of the sweetheart roses nestled inside, as though trying to engrave the bouquet on her memory.

"How can I ever thank you," she said softly when she finally spoke. I was embarrassed. It was such a little kindness on my part.

The son born to my husband and me that day turned out to be our only child. For nearly 21 years, he filled our lives with love and laughter. But on Easter morning, after a long, painful battle with cancer, he died quietly in our arms.

Ann and I had long been out of touch. She never knew our son, never knew of his illness, yet one day she picked up a newspaper and read his obituary. She went to her closet and unpacked something she had saved all those years: the ceramic bootee I had given her.

At the funeral home I was alone with my son in a room filled with the scent of roses, when a delivery man brought in a tiny bouquet. I didn't read the card until later. "To W. John Graves," the card read, "from the boy who was born with you at Memorial Hospital, and his mother."

Only then did I recognize the little blue bootee I had given to Ann so many years ago, once again filled with sweetheart roses.

A few days later several members of our family went back to the cemetery to help us clear John's grave. The bootee of roses sat at its foot, towered over by tall wreaths and sprays.

"How odd that anyone would send that to a funeral," someone said. "Flowers like that are more appropriate for a birth."

"There was a birth," said my husband. "John was born into eternal life." I looked at him with surprise, knowing such words were difficult for a man who had never spoken openly about such matters.

He emptied out the flowers and handed me the ceramic bootee. I held it in the palm of my hand, and, just as Ann had done, I traced it with my fingers, thinking how of all the messages it contained: the embers of friendship that glow through the years, and gratitude remembered.

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