One Rose at a Time

                                                                                  

Lisa's Roses...

There exists a neighborhood flower shop located in the heart of one of Pennsylvania's smallest cities.  It is a family business where you will be welcomed with a smile from someone who is most likely a member of that family.  You may find yourself reminiscing with Carmen who founded the shop in 1948.

  Perhaps you will catch up on the latest news with his son, Greg, who now runs the business with his wife, Dorrie, at his side. You enter the shop as a friend and will spend a few minutes in friendly conversation before getting down to the business of the day.  Simply put you understand that love rests between the flowers in that small store, and you will return to it again and again.

 

                     

Once a year that love spills over into the streets of this small city and reaches out to the neighboring communities as well.  In 2004  Greg and Dorrie tragically lost their daughter to cancer.  Lisa was a young woman whose physical beauty only mirrored the beauty she carried within her heart.  I cannot begin to imagine or understand the grief of her parents and all those who loved her.  Yet the glimmer of understanding I may have leaves me standing in awe of what Dorrie and Greg did next.  The hole in their hearts did not long remain a place of darkness.  Lisa'a love began to gently fill them with a flicker of light that eventually grew to radiate over miles.  On the anniversary of Lisa'a death the doors to their shop as well as their hearts are thrown wide open to the hundreds of people who will enter them that day.  Each and every one of those people will be given a dozen roses with one simple yet powerful request.  Keep one rose for yourself and give the remaining eleven away.  They ask that you pass on Lisa's love.  And on that day there is magic and joy in the air as Lisa's love fills this small city and the neighboring communities one rose at a time...one person at a time.

Lisa's love is carried out into this corner of the world by people of every race, religion, and sexual orientation.  The shop is in the heart of what was once a thriving steel mill town.

 It is a city of diversity and has had its share of difficult times.  Some of those difficulties were the result of economics as the steel industry declined leaving many without jobs.  Some of those difficulties arose because of the diverse cultures which led to misunderstanding and conflict.  Truth be told there are those who look down on the city and its residents.  Its challenges are well known and well publicized.  Little room is left for pretense, and therein lies this city's strength.  Many of its residents share what is almost a raw honesty, and that leads to a clearer understanding.  Understanding can then lead to acceptance and mutual respect.  This shop not only lies in the heart of its city, it represents the heart of its city.  You are likely to cross paths with people who sometimes struggle to simply keep moving, who carry the weight of burdens we cannot understand.  Yet these same people find a way to make their corner of the world a better place with one rose at a time...with one person at a time.

Why was Lisa's Roses able to become such a remarkable movement in a city that struggles with its challenges on a daily basis?  Perhaps because it was born from the heart and with love.  Can you imagine what might happen if we each rose above our pain, misunderstandings, and challenges and worked to make our corner of the world better with one rose at a time...one person at a time?  Why not try?

Pink Shoes Legacy

"I hope that when I die someday people remember me as an ornery son of a gun."  The memory came in a flash.  I  was in my early twenties and sitting in the car with my father as he was drove me back to college.   Those car trips provided rare opportunities for one-on-one time which sometimes led to heartfelt conversations.  I can picture him saying those words with his hands relaxed on the steering wheel and his eyes focused on the road's path before him.  It was a true picture of how he approached life.  Always in the driver's seat, looking forward, and aware of the potential surrounding him.  Always ready to do what was necessary to keep any member of his family safe, yet relaxed and taking life one mile at a time. And of course, always with his thoughts leading to humor.  Always looking for a way to make someone laugh and brighten their day.  A simple car trip that is significant not only for the words he spoke but also for the lessons he taught while simply driving.  The lessons that would one day become part of his legacy.

Legacy has been much on my mind recently.  What exactly is it?  That question kept repeating itself in my thoughts. My time teaching in a 4th grade classroom had me opening up dictionaries to find the definition I was searching for.  The closest I found is the following from Macmillan:

something that someone has achieved that continues to exist after they stop working or die

I imagine my legacy musings began with my father's passing in April.  As I sat and listened to the loving words spoken by those who eulogized Dad, there was a quiet persistent voice inside me that questioned who Dad really was and what legacy he wanted to leave for us.  What did he hope to achieve that would continue to exist long after he died?  Truth be told his wish to be remembered as, "an ornery son of a gun'" has been realized.  The photo below shows him as a man who existed years before I knew him, but I recognize the look on his face.  The smirk that speaks to his orneriness and the joke that is in his mind.  The attitude that when life throws you a challenge just thumb your nose at it, crack a joke, and keep moving forward with your eyes focused on the road ahead.

That was the man I knew as my father.  Yet the question of who else he was lingered in my mind.  That question then led to others.  As I went about the process of simply living I tried to quiet those thoughts.  They were determined however, and I would hear from them again.

Mother's Day was approaching, and I began a bit of a treasure hunt as I searched through the hundreds of photos in my possession for a particular one. It speaks to my priorities that said photos are not well organized, and I never did find the one I was searching for.  That turned out to be a blessing because my search led me to discover the treasure of my hunt.  It was a picture of Mom as a young woman.  She was playfully showing off her legs with her thumb out in that universal sign of hitch hiking.  She was laughing and carefree without the responsibilities of being a wife and mother.  That happy-go-lucky lady was unfamiliar to me.  For me, Mom's legacy was strength, faith, and determination.  She loved us with a passion, but I rarely saw that part of her that was free-spirited.  When I found the photo I stopped and stared.  That persistent questioning voice of my thoughts made itself known once again.  Who were you, Mom?  What kind of legacy did you want to leave for us?  What do I want my legacy to be?

As is the way of the universe, the more I reflected on legacy the more the it knocked at the door of my thoughts and demanded to be let in and dealt with.  It next showed up in an online class I was taking from an awesome and creative woman named Lesley Riley.  The lesson included a Youtube clip of a Ted Talk speaker named Minke Haveman.  There was a glimmer of tears in Minke's eyes as she spoke of a shopping excursion with her mother.  Her mother found a pair of high heeled pink shoes that she was determined her daughter should have.  When Minke demurred her mother insisted and said that everyone should have a pair of pink shoes.  She bought them for Minke, and her smile beamed as she gave them to her.  Minke then went on to explain that her mother was battling cancer at the time, and those pink shoes were to be the last gift she received from her mom.  

Minke spoke of those pink shoes as being a part of her legacy, but only if their story was known.  And therein lies a truth.  At the very least a part of my parents' story is not known.  The same is true of all my family and loved ones who are no longer here to tell me their stories.  The loss of those stories brought about some loss of legacy. 

Minke encourages her listeners to gather their stories and share them.  Write on the back of a photograph, share your memories, and let it be known why some seemingly insignificant object is cherished.  Those are the things that speak to our hearts, and aren't our hearts the core of who we are?  Are not those things we cherish voices of our legacy? 

There is an old chipped mug that rests in a place of honor on a shelf in my home.  Although it bears my name it was given to my parents by one of my aunts at a time before I remember.  It was displayed on a kitchen shelf not only throughout my childhood but through my adult years as well.  It was simply always there and became a touchstone for me whenever I visited my childhood home.  It speaks to my presence as a member of a loving family.  It easily brings back memories of family dinners when we gathered around the kitchen table, shared simple meals, and talked about the day's events.  As that mug held its place on a small kitchen shelf it also seemed to hold my place in my family.  It proudly sat on that shelf in our kitchen, and is it not said that the kitchen is the heart of the home?  Does it not follow then, that this seemingly insignificant object has earned its place in my heart?  And does not my heart contain the core of who I am?

The wonderful truth is that we are each the author of our own legacy, and we are each the lone author who can tell our stories completely.  We can choose what gifts or achievements we leave that will continue to exist long after we die.  However we need to tell the stories of our lives rather than let those stories be hidden in closed books.   We need to show what is in our hearts  for it is those things that give birth to our legacies.  

    As her presentation was drawing to a close Minke asked a question that I will now ask you.  What are your pink shoes?