The Rose
It sat in one corner of the park. It sat untouched by the playful rampages of the children. Most plants on that playground didn’t last for very long before they were trampled upon or uprooted by the careless actions of those at play. But this one remained. The children treated it with reverence, for it had been there long before them. It had been there when their parents were children, and their parents before them were children. It had probably been there long before the park was built, though no one alive could remember that far back.
In any case, a rose on a playground is a very odd thing. Many stories came up to explain it. Some said that an elf, or a sprite, or some other fanciful creature had planted it and had put a magic aura around it. Others said the rose’s origin reached far back before the white man. The most popular version of that particular tale was that an Indian man had been slain by some wild creature. When his young wife had wept over his grave the rose had sprung up from his heart. Others said that the rose grew there simply because good himself wished it to.
Whatever the origin of the rose was, that was not the important thing to those who knew of it. Externally, this appeared to be just a common rose. But it had curious properties. No one knew just when it was realized, but the general consensus was that the rose possessed amazing healing abilities. You could hear various stories from all sorts of people. Children who said their scabbed knees and scratched arms had returned to normal in the presence of the rose. There was a former homeless man who said the rose had kept him alive on one snowy winter’s night. Once a woman had been in a motorcycle wreck at the nearby intersection. Her arms were bent in odd positions and she had many deep cuts. The paramedics carried her past the rose on the way to the ambulance. As the passed through the presence of that curious flower she became whole again, as though the terrible accident had never occurred.
So the people lived with that wonderful flower for a long time. But one day a rich man came to that part of town. He looked upon the park and saw everything in it. And he said to himself, “This would be a good place to put a large store. I will buy this land and do just that. The store could make me some more money.” So the rich man went and took some money and bought the park.
When the people heard of what the rich man planned to do, they were horrified. They came to him in droves, begging him to keep the park and not buy the store. The rich man told them not to worry. He would donate some money for a new park elsewhere. The people said no, this was not about the park. They told the rich man about the rose and the magic powers that it possessed. When he heard their tales he scoffed. He did not believe that one flower could do such things. Magic was for children, he said, not for grown ups. Though the people pleaded with him, the rich man would not spare the rose.
The day came for the park to be leveled. The entire neighborhood turned out with sullen expressions. They watched the machines as they started to work, disassembling the playsets and tilling up the ground. They started on the side of the park opposite the rose and worked their way across.
Suddenly a cry went up and the machines stopped their tasks. The rich man came running, demanding to know why the workers had stopped. They brought him the body of a small boy; breath just newly left his chest. The rich man’s heart stopped and his mouth opened in shock when he saw the boy. It was his son, the only son his wife had given him before she had passed away.
“How did his happen?” the rich man asked, grief welling up in his heart. The boy had been playing too close to the machines, the workmen said, and had gotten in the way before they knew what was happening.
The rich man took the body of his son and wept loudly over it. Just then a little girl came out of the crowd and walked up to him. She tugged on his pant leg and pointed across the park. The rich man followed her finger. There, in that hallowed corner of the park, stood the rose, as beautiful and as powerful as the dawn.
The rich man shook his head. “No,” he said softly to the girl, tears in his eyes, “It’s too late. He’s gone, my son is gone.”
But the little girl shook her head. “The rose,” she said in that simplistic way that only children are capable of, “The rose can make him better. It can save him.”
“But how?” the rich man asked, disbelief still shadowing him.
“It just can,” the girl said, “Please, you have to believe. Just put him there and the rose will save him.”
The rich man looked at the body of his son; the warmth all too newly left it. Then he looked down at the little girl. The bright light of truth and faith shone in her eyes. Then he looked at his son again, letting a tear fall on the tiny cheek. And then the rich man looked across the park at the rose. He gazed at it for a long moment, wondering how such a thing, no matter how beautiful it may appear, could save his son from beyond the rift of death. Then the rich man cast aside his disbelief. With slow, difficult steps he carried the limp body of his son across the park to the rose. The entire crowd watched as he placed him beside that sacred flower. Then he knelt there, in the lowly dirt, and looked hard at the plant. The rose seemed to look back at him, gazing at this one who would destroy it with an expression of love that was impossible to replicate. Then, to the rich man’s amazement and joy, his son began to breathe again. He bent over him, scarcely hoping to believe the impossible had happened. But it had, and the rich man was overjoyed. He picked up his son, who was already asking his father what the matter was, and tears of pure happiness and gratitude flowed from his eyes.
Now when you go to that part of town, you will not see the same old park. It is now a lush green place. Soft grass grows over all parts of it and lovely beds of flowers decorate its grandest walks. Everywhere there are great stone benches where you may sit and smell the wonderful fragrances that all the flowers exude. And in that much hallowed corner of this new Eden, that rose still stands. For the rich man knew in his heart that he could not destroy such a great thing. So he built not a store, but this wonderful green place that stands forever as a shrine to that which we do not understand, but still will aid us. And beside that crimson rose there is a small stone with these words engraved upon it.
No good thing ever perishes from the earth


