Roses are poisonous. Did you know that? They are, but not to the extent that you are probably thinking. It’s not like you make a potion from them and slip it into someone’s drink only to bring about their demise. Not at all.

Roses do, however, carry a small amount of poison in their thorns. An overabundance of this poison can cause a pretty stiff infection that, left untreated, can be a real problem. Ask me how I know. I spent a morning in the hot sun, digging up dying roses. They were difficult to dig from the ground, and their thorns weren’t tiny. Even with gloves, the sharp prongs of the plant punched through, digging into my flesh. It hurt.

If you know me, then you know I’m not a quitter. To my detriment, I keep at a task until it’s done. I pulled the first plant from the ground and eyed it. Maybe this rose can be saved. So, I sat down and began clipping away the thick, dead branches. Every limb bit into my skin like a hungry animal. I dug and pruned six of these bushes before the sun grew too hot, and my clothes began to drip water (aka, sweat).

The kicker was, after all that work, I figured out the plants were infested with tiny bugs. This meant the roses were hopeless, and my work was wasted.

I pulled off my thick gloves and wondered why they didn’t protect my hands better. My legs held long scratches that dripped blood, and my hands—bore punctures that were already swelling. It took a little time to clean up the mess of dirt and roots, then drag the plants to the street for disposal. And as I crawled into the car to head home, I noticed my thumb and forefinger stiffening and swelling.

The longer the day went on, the worse my hand ached. The swelling in the knuckle of my thumb rendered my skin a bright red and drew a heat that signaled something more serious was happening. By morning, I couldn’t bend my finger.

I knew the problem, and yet, I could do nothing to prevent the damage from wreaking havoc on my body.

How could a plant as beautiful as a rose cause such pain? Its petals are like velvet. The scent, sweet, yet in the thorn that protects the flower, is a vile drop that is unforgiving of anyone who wishes to enjoy the petals.

I filled a bowl with steaming hot water and scooped in Epsom salts. Just soaking my hand felt like thousands of nails pushing into my flesh. It was awful.

I soaked my hand for the better part of a week. Between the Epsom salts, Betadine scrubs, and Neosporin, nothing stopped the spreading poison. Every day brought more swelling. My skin felt like it would split open.

You know I believe there is a life lesson in every situation we’re placed in, I just couldn’t  see it. You’ve heard the adage, beauty is in the eye of the beholder. That certainly held, at least halfway true, with this whole rose thing. As beautiful as the roses are in bloom, their loveliness is undoubtedly in the eye of the beholder. Despite how I loved the flowers, what lay below the bloom was misery.

So often, we look at the gorgeous things of life and long for them. We look at the beauty that these things possess and fail to see that too much want can bring us a harsh reality. Most of us aren’t happy. We tend to want more. Perhaps we will buy a new car, but within months, that new car won’t be enough. Instead, the next newer version is what we must have, continually seeking— trying to find happiness in the temporal. Things won’t bring us true happiness.

I’ve found that as much as we love our families, they aren’t perfect either. Each member struggles from time to time, picking and pruning at their lives and being stuck with thorns that they then must suffer the consequence of the drop of poison.

I’ve suffered the consequences of those pricks, and I’ve watched as my family has too, knowing that there is nothing I can do to “fix” things. We just have to work our way through. Wait it out. And, during the waiting ask ourselves if once the waiting is done— was it worth it. Many times it is.

We learn from the pricks and sticks—the pain that comes along with the poison, but the payoff is generally worth the wait. It’s that way in relationships, whether they’re friends or family. Sometimes a prick pushes in poison, and we have to push through the pain and swelling to get to the healing.

The roses I was trying my best to save couldn’t be saved. They were beyond sick. They were dying. Sometimes that happens. Life nor roses are perfect. But I can say one thing. I tried. I paid a price for the effort, but I tried. When I walk past the flower bed now missing the color that bloomed for years, I am content to know, I tried.

We’ll replant something new in early spring, but for now, the flower bed is void of its color. I’m a little sad. The roses would often bloom into December when the mountain cold finally puts them to sleep. The point is…I tried. And though the ending didn’t take the turn I’d hoped, it was still…satisfactory. And sometimes, even in the best of situations, that is the only outcome.

I think of that Rolling Stones song that reminds us that the things we want are not what we usually get. Instead, we tend to get what we need. (Since I can’t copy the lyrics due to copyrights, I paraphrase. Any baby boomer can read between the lines.)

 I’m learning I can’t fix everything. I’m learning to be content to seek what I need, not what I desire. I hope that for you too. 

I recently saw a post on Facebook that asked the somewhat profound question: Do you look back?

At first, I scoffed at such a silly post, citing that the question was senseless. I passed by it, not giving it a second glance. However, the question hung in the back of my mind. Do you look back?

That question bugged me for a couple of weeks. Every time I scrolled through my feed, there it was. It didn’t seem to have shares or likes attached, so apparently, others felt like I did—a senseless question. But if it was so pointless, why did it pester me?

Mom will turn 98 this month. Ninety-eight! Holy cow. She can feasibly hit 100 years old with her excellent health. She’s active and happy. In fact, we just had a doctor visit where the doctor told her she hoped she would be as fortunate as Mom to be this healthy when she hit 98.

I tell you that because my brother and I are finally starting to see those little signs of aging in Mom. We’re fortunate she doesn’t have dementia or anything like it. Her mind is sound, but she is beginning to forget little things that an aging body tends to forget. Dates, a loss of a word or thought midstream, again, minor. We all have them. I walk into a room and have to stand there a minute to remember why I went to the trouble to go into that room. You relate, right?

So, on the way to take Mom home after her appointment, we drove past a motel that was being demolished. “Oh, you remember the people that owned that. They led your Girl Scout troop and then offered it to you to be the leader. You told them only if you could move up each year with your girls in the troop.”

“Mom, what are you talking about? I’ve never been a Girl Scout leader. I have four boys.”

And there it was—a blank stare. Mom didn’t have a clue. I waited before I said anything else. In a second, she waved her hand at me and said, “Never pays to look back, does it?” She laughed and reminded me it was her who had the troop. The memory was hers, not mine.

It seems that for most of us, looking back is not always fun. For the life of me, I don’t understand why our first recalled memories are less than pleasant. Seems we must swim through a river of floating baggage before we get our feet on the dry land of happy memories.

For me, there are lots of happy memories that I’ve recalled zillions of times: friends, fun, Christmases past. But the memories that come back most vividly are the ones with my boys. The shocking thing is my boys don’t always remember things the same way I remembered them. I could probably debate the memory of giving birth with one son, and he’d swear it wasn’t the way I remembered it. The kid probably remembered his first thoughts at birth (If anyone could remember that, it would be him.)