A Rose in the Desert

I looked out my window at the desert trail going by my house. Something was different, different from yesterday, and all the days before. Then I noticed it—a beautiful, luscious red rose, growing right in the middle of all the cactus, sand, and sage brush. I gazed awhile at this unique , lovely sight—taking in its beauty while contemplating the strangeness and wonder of that lone rose.

“A gift from El Niño,” I thought, “but it won’t last long out here. Too bad...”

Sure enough, the blazing summer sun did its work, and, before long, the rose had begun to wilt.

I saw a jogger come by, a business type no doubt, as I could see from the efficiency of his jog and the trim of his sweat suit. He stopped a bit when he caught sight of the rose. To my surprise, he began talking to the rose:

“Hey rose, good job, branching out here in the desert. Keep up the effort, put in the long hours, and I’m sure you’ll make it.”

Then he jogged off.

The sun still beat down, and the rose continued to wilt.

In a little while a lady came jogging daintily by. When she saw the rose she said, “Oh, you poor thing. Let me help.”

She sprinkled a few drops from her water bottle onto the rose and jogged off.

Unfortunately, the sun quickly evaporated the water, and the rose wilted some more.

Then I saw a deacon from one of the largest churches in town out for his daily walk. When he saw the rose, he stared a minute and then frowned. “No wonder you’re wilting! Roses don’t belong in the desert. Such rebellion! Serve you right if you fry to a crisp under the desert sun!”

He walked off, looking strangely satisfied with himself, as if he’d saved the world from yet another evil.

I can’t be sure, but I think the rose began to wilt faster while the deacon was talking. I began to give up hope, and was sure the rose would die within the hour.

Another visitor came walking by, but he looked almost worse than the rose. He had obviously walked a long way across the hot desert, and it had taken its toll. He sat down and was just about to drink from his canteen when he caught sight of the rose. He stared a minute, and then, instead of drinking, he took his canteen and poured its entire contents on the ground under the rose. When he was done, without saying a word, he got up and walked away.

I went to bed happy that night, thanking God for the hiker with the canteen, and the lovely rose, no longer wilting, but once again showing its radiance outside my window.