Roses From Heaven
Roses from Heaven
By Charlotte Hilton Andersen

………
“And they had viewed themselves in their own carnal state, even less than the dust of the earth. And they all cried aloud with one voice, saying: O have mercy, and apply the atoning blood of Christ that we may receive forgiveness of our sins, and our hearts may be purified; for we believe in Jesus Christ, the Son of God, who created heaven and earth, and all things; who shall come down among the children of men.”
Mosiah 4:2
………

I sat dumbfounded on my front step and stared. The bright yellow roses ruffled in the breeze as a tear slipped down my face. So this was it. I hadn’t wanted to ask for a sign (after all, you know the Lord feels about people who ask for signs). And yet, here they were: a baker’s dozen of long-stemmed golden beauties. The lack of any card only solidified my knowledge that God had graciously granted my unspoken request. A huge weight lifted off my shoulders as I picked them up and carried them inside.

“The delivery guy probably just messed up and left them on the wrong doorstep,” my cynical friend said when I called to tell her. I shook my head. Regardless of how these roses got to my door, they were heaven sent and I knew it. No one but God and my beloved grandmother could know of the significance of yellow roses to me and my “grammy” had been dead for fifteen years. That left my Heavenly Father answering the fervent and unceasing prayer of my heart over the last six years with the only answer that He knew I would understand.

Six years ago I was sexually assaulted by my boyfriend of the time. He was a returned missionary and I a good (but not perfect) LDS college girl. We had met in the Institute and immediately visions of temple marriage and fantasies of true love clouded my mind. I ignored early signs that something was awry in our relationship and, even worse, I chose not to listen to the still small whisperings as the Holy Ghost cautioned me. Bad went to worse, worse went to unthinkable and before I knew it, we were broken up and I was broken in ways I couldn’t even begin to understand then. After a tear-filled confession of what I saw as my morality problem to my bishop and a firm resolution to be wiser next time, I pronounced myself officially “over it” and worked diligently to prove that it had not affected me, not changed who I was.

Oh, but it had. I tried to ignore it over the next five years as I met a wonderful, caring man, married him in the temple, graduated from college and then graduate school and had two children in short succession. But in case I ever forgot, there were the nightmares. Always the nightmares followed by dark hours filled with self-recrimination and doubt and pain. Many nights I lay in bed, listening to my good husband breathing, and wondered if he knew what kind of monster I was. God knew, that I was sure of. He must hate me for what had happened, I thought, for my part in it. Was I worthy of my calling in the Young Women? Was I worthy to be sitting with the other good sisters in Relief Society every Sunday? Was I even worthy of my temple marriage? My beautiful children? My very life?

Then one day I received a phone call that shattered any surface peace I’d managed to maintain. He’d done it again. And again. And again. At the time it had happened to me, I had chosen silence instinctively, like a wounded animal hides. Besides, he had told me that it was my fault and I had believed him. I had never imagined that there would be others.

After I hung up the phone with the police, I sat on my back porch hugging myself and rocking, waiting for the tears to come. Instead I was filled with a deep and pungent fear. I had just found out I was pregnant again with our third and now all I could think of was how much I wanted to die. This horrible secret I’d been hiding for so long was out. I’d agreed to testify in court. I knew I had to do it. Because of my inaction five years before, others had been hurt, even more so than I had been.

The court case dragged on nine dark months but at the very end my ex-boyfriend was sentenced to a year in prison and mental health counseling for sex offenders. A pittance, it seemed to the other girls who had courageously testified with me, but I was just glad it was over. The next day my son was born.

Over the next year, I struggled with the same painful feelings I’d had before but now they were magnified by the lens of the court case. On one hand, I knew I’d sinned by keeping it quiet but on the other hand, had I done the right thing by aiding the court case? Every decision I’d made, both then and now, seemed wrong. Despite the repeated assurances of my husband, my bishop and my therapist that I was not responsible for what happened to me or to the other girls, I still held myself accountable. After all, that is a major tenet of our religion – to take responsibility for our bad choices and I’d made a million of them! I wanted to repent but part of the repentance process involves making restitution and for me that was impossible. There was no way I could fix him or the other girls. I couldn’t even fix myself.

It was with that agony I cried to the Lord every night, begging for forgiveness and mercy. Take this away from me, I would plead. I knew that the Atonement was the key but I didn’t know how to use it. I couldn’t bring myself to ask if He forgave me, and more importantly if He still loved me. What if He didn’t? It was just too important. I’d rather not have my answer then know He was disappointed in me. But my heart asked the question over and over again as I continued serving in my roles as mother, teacher, friend, wife, sister, daughter and counselor. I couldn’t help but think that if any of these people knew what I had done they wouldn’t love me anymore. As I sunk further into depression, it seemed to me that there was no way out of my personal hell.

Then the roses came.

I remember being five and sitting on a magic carpet under the fairy bush in my Grammy’s back yard as we shared whispered confidences between bites of soft cheese and sips of honeysuckle. I remember watching in awe as she broke off a large fragrant yellow rose and scattered the petals over me, laughing as I wriggled my bare toes in their softness. “Do you know what yellow roses mean?” she asked as she nimbly snapped off the thorns from the stem. I shook my head, grinning. My Grammy, she knew everything there was to know about beautiful things. “Now this is just our secret, understand?” She looked very serious so I nodded quickly. “Pinkie swear?” I held up my pinkie and crossed it with her wrinkled one. “God made all kinds of roses but the yellow ones are his favorite. It’s because they’re so bright and sunny, they make him happy - just like you make him happy! So whenever you see one, know that Jesus and the angels are nearby, watching over you. It’s your Heavenly Father telling you,” she whispered as she tapped my head three times with the stem, causing more petals to cascade over me. “My darling child, I love you. I love you. I love you. Remember that always.”

I remember. At last, I remember.
- posted by Charlotte @ 8:57 AM