On March 22, 1987, I finally made the decision to live. My grandparents provided their loving presences, and home, for me for four days, while I detoxified from sixteen years of drug abuse and alcoholism. Over the course of my lifetime, they had already provided a constant, unwavering loving presence for me, even while I felt no love for myself, or my life. My grandfather eventually came to represent the very presence of God’s love for its children over the course of our shared life, and that love helped to prepare me for the engagement to the real purpose for my life. Thank you, Grandfather Great Spirit, for your presence continues to daily guide me into my own promised land, which I gladly share with all who are receptive.
For most of life, I would have preferred intoxication Into numbness or death over speaking my truth. I had little connection with any creative potential within me. But an experience in early March of 2017 convinced me that I need to speak up and honor my own creative potential. Though I never dreamed of being a spokesman for higher possibilities in life, my spirit demanded that I honored its calling, through the only way that I knew how. I have since written several short stories and a few manuscripts that might have become books, had I been less controlled by the effects of early childhood trauma.
Here is the first story that I ever wrote, at the young age of 61 years. It took two days of transmission from the deepest part of myself to the keyboard, from March 5-6, 2017.
It is my message of gratitude and love, to give back to all who have helped me to “prune my thorns”.
Grandfather Great Spirit~A Story Of Recovery
Part 1
Long ago, in a secluded cottage nestled far outside the city’s boundaries, lived a gardener and his wife. Devoted wholly to the simplicity of country life, they found joy in nature’s quiet splendor and worked tirelessly to nurture a flourishing nursery. Through their efforts, the land bore life in the form of vibrant plants, sturdy trees, and delicate flowers, all of which provided them a sustainable livelihood through sales to the local community. Eventually, they welcomed a child into their lives, a son whom they cherished deeply from the moment he came into the world. Their family life was harmonious, grounded in love, respect, and shared purpose.
However, as their son matured into his teenage years, he grew distant from the guiding principles upon which they had raised him. What started as quiet misunderstandings soon unraveled into unproductive discussions and, ultimately, searing arguments. One fateful day, their son, consumed by anger, left the only home he had known, vowing never to return. For the gardener and his wife, the emptiness left in the wake of his departure was profound, a void that no words could soothe.
Yet, their shared grief found an outlet in their garden. With a love that refused to wither, they decided to transform part of their land into a sanctuary of roses. The wife, particularly captivated by the complexity and elegance of rose bushes, deemed them a fitting metaphor for their resilient hearts. Each plant demanded careful attention; unruly weeds were meticulously removed, and branches were delicately trimmed to allow the roses to flourish in their full glory. Even nature’s thorns, reminders of life’s inherent dualities, were pruned thoughtfully to maintain balance and beauty. This garden became an extension of their souls, a tangible manifestation of love redirected, not diminished.
Over the years, their rose garden gained recognition for its enchanting beauty. Visitors from neighboring towns and villages came to marvel at the intricate blooms and intoxicating fragrances. The gardeners, now masters of their craft, grew alongside their roses, finding solace in the cycle of growth, bloom, and renewal. Their hearts still silently carried the ache for their absent son, but they poured their nurturing energy into their floral creations, channeling the love they had once reserved for a child who had chosen a different path.
Time, however, was unyielding. The couple aged, and their ability to tend to the expansive rose garden waned. Gradually, they focused their precious energy on fewer bushes until only one remained, positioned nearest to the cottage door. This singular rose bush became their cherished companion, representing a lifetime of labor, loss, and enduring love. The other bushes, left unattended, grew wild and untamed, overtaking the once-renowned garden. By this time, the couple had relinquished all hope that their son might return, though occasional snippets of news about his successes reached them through the whispers of visitors. There were even rumors that they might be grandparents, though such reports were fleeting and unverifiable. Attempts to contact him had ceased long ago, as each endeavor was met with an unrelenting silence.
One morning, the husband woke to his customary routine of reaching for his wife, only to find her lifeless beside him. Grief crashed upon him like a tidal wave, leaving him shattered and vulnerable. With his own vitality quickly fading, he resolved to perform one final act of devotion. Retrieving a sheet of paper, he penned a farewell message and tucked it into his shirt pocket before gathering a hidden shoebox containing their life savings. Armed with a shovel, he limped to the garden and began digging. Beneath the beloved rose bush closest to the cottage, he prepared a grave for his wife, the flowers serving as her headstone.
With his labors nearly complete, he dug another hole nearby, placing the shoebox within its depths. Perhaps, he thought with a flicker of hope, this would offer some significance in an unknown future. Tamping the earth securely, he returned to his wife’s resting place, finishing the burial with painstaking care. Exhausted, he laid himself atop the freshly turned soil, his tears mingling with the earth. There, by her side, his life slipped quietly away, leaving their love entwined forever beneath the fragrant blooms.
Days passed before the postman noticed the untouched stack of mail outside their door. Concerned, he ventured inside the unlocked cottage, only to find it eerily silent. When he wandered into the garden, the sight of the couple’s final resting place struck him deeply. Overcome first by grief, then by admiration, he stood in awe of the life and love he now barely comprehended. Humbled, he alerted the authorities, who eventually identified the man and notified his estranged son.
The son, however, showed no interest in claiming his father’s body. With no next of kin willing to step forward, the mortuary was left to treat the man as an anonymous, unclaimed body, destined for an unmarked burial. Moved by the serene dignity of the gardener’s face, even in death, the mortuary manager reached out to the postman to seek any remaining connections. Determined to honor the man’s legacy, the postman initiated an extraordinary search, contacting postal workers across the region to uncover possible relatives bearing the same surname.
The search bore faint fruit. A family on the far side of town confirmed no relation, but a newly rented P.O. box downtown offered a last glimmer of hope. The box’s registration listed the same last name, with the first name “Gary,” and a middle name matching the deceased gardener’s first name, which was Brian. A tenuous thread, yet one worth exploring. The postman left a postcard in the box, detailing the unclaimed body and the urgency of the situation. If no response came, the gardener’s remains would be cremated and forgotten, a fate the postman found unbearably unjust.
Part 2
Gary awoke in a shelter on the outskirts of town, head pounding and spirit heavy. Each morning felt like a fresh battle against the weight of his failures. Estranged from his wife and son, harboring guilt from a lifetime of broken connections, Gary felt trapped in a cycle of despair. Memories of his parents, distant yet vivid, haunted him. He longed for the mother he had lost too soon and for a chance to reconcile with the father he had pushed away so cruelly. But regret, like the thorns of a neglected rose bush, had wrapped itself around him, leaving him weary and scarred.
Gary’s life had unraveled like a fraying thread. Fired from his last job two months prior due to declining performance and attendance, he now had no direction, no anchoring purpose. His sole aim each day was to escape his misery through chemical cocktails that no longer offered even fleeting relief. The fading numbing effects left him trapped in a cycle of self-destruction. Habits that die hard were killing him slowly, and the unbearable weight of his pain pressed him toward an ultimate escape.
He peered into his wallet. The scant few bills mocked him, insufficient even to fund his spiraling binges. The shelter’s walls felt as though they were tightening around him, the air thick with the claustrophobia of despair. Overwhelmed, Gary stumbled out the shelter door, as though seeking freedom from a prison he could not define. The streets offered little solace, and his thoughts wandered. “What’s left to find?” he wondered bitterly. “Purpose?” His cynical mind answered itself with a grim thought. “Perhaps my purpose is to die—to stand as a cautionary tale for others, maybe even for my son. A dark manual on what not to do with your life.”
His determination to find an escape sharpened. “I need money. Whether I have to beg, borrow, or steal, I have to get enough.” A distant memory surfaced. He recalled that his former employer owed him a severance check. A twisted thought began to take root, illuminating a path. “With that money, I could buy a gun. I could end this drama for good.” His heart raced. Sweat beaded on his skin. The overwhelming need to quench his internal chaos through self-medication pressed him forward. Mechanically, he made his way to the main post office, where he recently rented a small P.O. box. That little box, bare and impersonal, was the last space he could call his own.
Upon opening the box, his shoulders sagged with disappointment. No severance check. Instead, a simple postcard caught his gaze. The note was from a rural mail carrier who described finding an unclaimed body with the same last name as Gary’s own. He stared at the card, unmoved. The news failed to ignite curiosity or compassion, only indifference. “Why should I care about some stranger?” he muttered, tossing the card into a nearby trash bin before shuffling back into the street.
Unbeknownst to Gary, an opportunity to redeem a life-affirming bond was waiting, carried on the written words of a caring, conscientious postman.
Gary’s crushing despair was persistent, trudging alongside him like a shadow. Unwilling to confront the emptiness, yet equally resolute in his desire to escape it, another thought emerged. “What if the dead man had valuables?” The idea wasn’t noble, and he didn’t pretend otherwise. If he could convince someone he was related to the deceased, perhaps he could scrounge enough resources for his final solution. Whatever possessions the stranger had could bankroll an end to his unbearable existence.
Gary began the long walk to the mortuary, his feet moving with the hollow determination of a man with nothing to lose. When he arrived, he pushed open the double doors and was greeted by the mortuary manager. The manager, dressed impeccably, gave him a measured glance. “How can I help you?” he asked.
“I… I may be related to someone you have here,” Gary began, his voice tentative.
“I just want to see if there’s anything left. Anything I’m entitled to.”
His nerves frayed as waves of withdrawal gnawed at the edges of his composure. The manager studied him carefully, noting the weathered man’s resemblance to the body in the back room. Finally, the manager requested Gary’s identification.
With Gary’s ID in hand, the manager confirmed the shared last name and middle name connection between Gary and the deceased. Suspicion gave way to curiosity. “Follow me. I’ll show you the body,” the manager offered.
Gary hesitated but nodded, his steps heavy as he followed the manager into the mortuary’s back room. The faint chill of the space, coupled with the dull fluorescent hum, created an air of solemnity. The mortuary manager pulled back the drape covering the body, exposing a lifeless form stiffened by time and circumstance. Gary braced himself, forcing his attention to start at the feet, before tilting his gaze slowly upward.
He tried to keep his emotions at bay, repeating to himself, “I’m just here for the money.” But as his eyes reached the man’s face, recognition struck him like a hammer to the chest. Despite the wrinkles that age and hardship had carved into the dead man’s features, there was no mistaking it. The sharpness of the nose, the shape of the chin, and most piercing of all, the eyes. They mirrored those of Gary’s own father.
Heart pounding, Gary reeled with confusion.
“Is this my father’s brother? Maybe my grandfather’s twin, somehow?”
His inner narrative tumbled and unraveled. Grief and anger surged forward, crashing over him without restraint, pulling him under. He felt a deep ache unlike anything he’d known, an overwhelming awareness of loss. But woven into this grief was an equally potent rage.
“This man…” Gary thought bitterly, “he never cared, never loved, never acknowledged me. Nobody in my family has. Family ties mean nothing. What good is love if no one in your life remembers how to share it?” His mind spiraled deeper, cycling through injury after injury inflicted by an unresponsive world.
The mortuary manager interrupted his thoughts.
“You’re the first person who’s come to see him,” he said.
Gary nodded numbly. These small, seemingly inconsequential words carried a weight that pressed down on him further. The anger he felt—not only toward the deceased but toward his own father and the legacy of pain that followed their bloodline—weighed heavier with every breath. He felt like a spectator in the ruins of his own existence. “At least soon I won’t have to live this lie. There’s no point to this life. The truth I’m chasing only brings more misery with every step.”
His thoughts churned darkly. The vise grip of despair closed tighter, tempting him to hasten his own demise. Yet, amidst the noise of his inner turmoil, something faint flickered. Gary’s curiosity piqued despite himself. “What else don’t I know?” he wondered. Bitterness wrapped its tendrils tightly around him, but against the odds, the small ember of curiosity pressed him to continue his search.
Perhaps there was more to this story. Perhaps not. But for now, the next step lay at the county records office, where buried among bureaucratic archives, more pieces of his shattered family history awaited discovery.
Part 3 – Revelations at the Mortuary
Gary couldn’t shake the weight of the name he’d carried all his life. It had to be rare, he reasoned, shared only by those closest in blood. Yet as he dug through the dusty archives, the records revealed only the faintest traces of it. His father’s name stood firm in its place, alongside his own, but one lone instance emerged beyond them both. A deed registered decades ago, tied to the same, almost mythical surname. There was no mention of the deed-holder’s death, no closure to the life that sparked this peculiar trail.
Gary had grown up believing his grandparents had passed away long before he was born, their legacy reduced to whispers and omissions. For reasons now unclear, none of it added up. A growing unease twisted within him, a suspicion he couldn’t push down. Could it be that his father had lied, shaping Gary’s world with a false narrative?
Swallowed by uncertainty and aching for answers, Gary returned to the mortuary. He carried with him a copy of the mysterious deed, clinging to it like a lifeline. Stepping into the sterile quiet of the mortuary office, he approached the manager. Struggling to steady his voice, he asked for the exact address where the nameless man’s body had been picked up.
The manager disappeared momentarily, sifting through records before returning with a document that matched Gary’s request. His eyes fell onto the paper, and the breath caught in his throat. The address was identical. It was the same as the one listed on the deed.
His chest tightened. Whatever truths lay buried here refused to hide any longer. Feeling as though the air in the room had turned hostile, Gary swallowed his pride one last time.
“This… this man must be a relative. Can I have his wallet now?”
Without hesitation, the manager gestured to an associate who retrieved a plain box from the recesses of the chilled vault. Gary was led back to the cavernous, ice-cold room where the stranger’s lifeless form waited silently, a solemn witness to the unfolding mystery. The box held all the possessions found in the deceased man’s pockets. Among them was a worn leather wallet and an unopened, neatly folded letter.
Taking the items in his trembling hands, Gary found himself involuntarily gravitating toward the corpse of the man before him. Something deep inside clawed to reconcile the still figure on the table with the shadow of a family he never truly knew. The finality of it unraveled him.
His vision blurred, tears spilling freely down his face, unrestrained and uncharacteristic. He hadn’t cried in years—not when his father screamed at him, not when he left home, and certainly not during the bitter grind of adulthood. Yet now grief poured out of him like floodgates breached.
Through the haze of weeping, Gary pieced together the truth. His tears slowed as he whispered into the cold void. “This man… this man was my grandfather.”
The manager stepped back and allowed Gary the space to process the weight of that realization. After a pause, Gary said softly, almost pleading, “I want all of his possessions.”
The manager obliged, handing over the sealed letter that had been discovered in the man’s front shirt pocket. Reverently, Gary walked out, cradling the letter and the wallet with a grip that suggested they held answers he’d searched his whole life for. Yet, as heavy as the package in his hands was, the weight of his soul felt infinitely heavier.
The night drew him toward his familiar haunt, a lonely park bench where he nursed cheap liquor, though tonight the bench and the sky above felt different. His best friend, alcohol, had comforted him before. But tonight, the letter felt heavier than the bottle. Pulling the envelope from his pocket and undoing its fragile seal, he unfolded the paper to find surprising clarity in the script. The handwriting was steady, purposeful.
Dear Grandson,
You do not know me, but I know you deeply. I am your grandfather.
Gary’s grip tightened slightly as his eyes darted over the words.
It pains me greatly to meet you this way, through ink and paper rather than in life. But life is maddeningly imperfect, isn’t it? Sometimes the paths we tread are the ones we’d never choose, yet they shape us nonetheless.
If you are reading this, then you’ve endured. Whatever trials brought you to me must have felt like your crosses to bear, and perhaps you wonder why. But our pain, grandson, is neither an end nor a punishment. It is an invitation to rise and reclaim what life has obscured.
Gary’s eyes stung as he read, his fingers trembling against the thin paper.
Your father… my own beloved son… was the joy of our lives. He carried the sun in his smile and stood tall even as a small boy. We cherished him deeply, perhaps too deeply, for in our efforts to guide him, we lost that guiding thread ourselves. Somewhere along the line, he turned away, and in his rejection, we lost not only him but the children he would one day have. We lost you before we even knew you.
The letter was a collision of emotions, spinning a tale of unfurling love, confusion, loss, and redemption. His parents’ estrangement was no longer just a bitter footnote in Gary’s life; it became part of a larger tapestry woven by pain and misunderstanding.
Gary paused, gripping the edges of the letter as if bracing for whatever came next. It was a starkly human story, inviting him not to blame but to reflect, not to despair but to understand.
If you have found this letter, grandson, then you must have found your way to where I rest. You are stronger than I could have imagined, and I ask you to carry our story forward. Tend to the garden of your soul, prune away the pain and bitterness. There remains beauty still, waiting to bloom.
Know this above all else—we loved you, even from afar. Please, if you can, love your father as I loved him, beyond mistakes and time. Do this not for me, but for you. You deserve to be free.
Life will not always be kind, but it will always offer the chance to heal. You are meant for more than suffering, my grandson. You are here to thrive.
With eternal love,
Brian, your grandfather
Gary folded the letter slowly, his entire being hollow and yet full at once. The hatred and resentment he had clung to for decades were draining away, leaving only fragments of possibility. He had no answers yet, only the faintest glimpses of hope.
For a long moment, he sat under the stars, the letter pressed against his heart.
Tomorrow was an unwritten story, and perhaps for the first time in his life, that didn’t terrify him.
Part 4
Gary was stunned as he read the letter, the words echoing in his mind and unlocking emotions he never thought possible. The tight, unrelenting pressure in his chest that had accompanied him through life finally began to ease, leaving him bewildered. The ache tethered to his heart softened and gave way to something unfathomably profound, so potent and healing that Gary’s legs buckled beneath him. As he started to collapse, the manager reached out, steadying him. Gary, uncharacteristically unconcerned about appearances, instinctively embraced the man—not just for support, but as if offering the first genuine hug he’d allowed himself to give another human being.
“Kind sir,” Gary began, his voice trembling with the weight of his emotions, “please help me prepare my grandfather for his final resting place. I want to bury him next to his wife, at their home.”
He glanced at the meager cash in his hands, the $22 gifted by the manager twinned with his remaining $16, and hesitantly added,
“May I put this toward the transport costs?”
The manager considered Gary’s heartfelt request before a memory sparked. He recalled an old hearse stored in a nearby warehouse, long unused but serviceable. Without hesitation, he directed his assistant to retrieve it and make it roadworthy.
“You’re welcome to use the hearse for as long as you need,” the manager offered. “Just promise to keep in touch and share how it all works out.”
Overwhelmed by gratitude, Gary thanked the man earnestly. When the hearse was ready, they carefully loaded his grandfather’s body into it. Gary held tightly to the property deed and, with a heart full of uncertainty but also newfound resolve, set off to fulfill his grandfather’s wishes.
Arriving at the secluded property, Gary was floored by its natural beauty. Surrounding the quaint cottage were lush meadows, peaceful forests, winding streams, and imposing mountains. Gratitude swelled within him, replacing the relentless cravings that had once ruled his existence. He wandered the grounds, admiring the artistry of the overgrown landscaping. Though time and neglect had clearly taken their toll, the site still exuded an unshakable charm.
Stepping inside the cottage, Gary immediately felt a deeply unfamiliar sense of belonging. Room by room, he took it all in. The walls were adorned with his grandmother’s paintings and family photographs. There were moments frozen in time of his father joyfully engaging with his grandfather, their bond captured in black-and-white frames. Articles detailing his father’s achievements filled the spaces between shelves lined with sports trophies from years gone by.
“Well,” Gary mused aloud, “if I’m going to live here, I either need to learn to forgive my father or get rid of all these memories.” Forgiveness was uncharted territory for him, an elusive concept reserved for others.
Outside, the sight of his grandmother’s grave greeted him. Her headstone, marked by a meticulously groomed rosebush bursting with fragrant blooms, stopped him in his tracks. Tears welled up as he knelt before the grave. With a trembling voice, he expressed the regret of never meeting her or his grandfather, coupled with the realization that he had much to change about his life. There were amends to be made, debts of the heart left unpaid.
“But first things first,” Gary muttered to himself. His grandfather had to be buried. He retrieved a shovel from the shed, despite never wielding one in his life.
His hands fumbled with the tool, the physical labor foreign to someone conditioned by city life. The strain on his back was unfamiliar, but he grew into the rhythm of the work. Pressing the shovel deeper into the earth, the softened soil near the unruly second rosebush gave way more easily. Suddenly, the blade struck something unyielding yet out of place. Kneeling down again, Gary brushed away the dirt to reveal a wooden box. He opened it cautiously, unveiling its treasures—a deed to the property, an old checkbook, and stacks of cash amounting to several thousand dollars.
Staring at the box’s contents, the words of his grandfather’s letter returned to Gary’s mind, a poetic preamble to this moment. Though the cash presented a practical solution to his immediate challenges, he sensed that his grandfather’s “buried treasure” was far more than money. He felt, for the first time, cradled by life itself. The brokenness that had defined his existence began to dissolve as a sense of wholeness, purpose, and peace crept in.
Eager to share these feelings, Gary wrote heartfelt letters to his estranged wife and son later that summer. His words carried the weight of his transformation as he apologized and invited them to see his new home. Months went by before his wife decided to visit, driven by an inexplicable tug at her heart.
When Gary saw them arrive, he stood by the mailbox, a nervous resolve steadying his fidgeting hands. His wife and son exited their car cautiously, taking in the unfamiliar serenity of the property. They approached him slowly, their faces a mix of disbelief, curiosity, and hope.
“What happened to you, Gary?” his wife finally asked. “You seem… different. You’re happy, and there’s something in the way you speak that… I can feel it. What’s changed?”
“I know it sounds impossible,” Gary admitted, voice trembling with vulnerability, “but I think… I think I’ve had an experience with God.”
They listened as he recounted the story—from the letter to the grave, the treasure, and his transformation. Though no words could do justice to his inner awakening, his family could see, and feel, that the man before them had been touched by something extraordinary. And as they stood there together, surrounded by the beauty of the land and the second chances it had brought with it, Gary understood that healing was just as much about reconnecting as it was about letting go.
Part 5
Their relationship began anew, rooted in love, understanding, and transformation. His wife and son moved back in with him, and together, they labored to restore his grandparents’ cherished property to its former glory. Years later, the rose garden, fully rejuvenated, once again became a beacon of beauty, drawing visitors from near and far. The property thrived, and with it, they found themselves effortlessly managing both the land and their lives.
The family flourished, though the journey of healing and tuning their hearts and minds to resonate with higher vibrations remained ongoing. For Gary, communication was no longer a source of fear, though echoes of past insecurities about being unheard sometimes surfaced. Yet, his openness about these struggles allowed his wife to lovingly guide him, helping him recognize when these old wounds clouded his judgment. Though his emotional thorns would always be a part of him, she consistently supported him in pruning them back whenever they threatened to overshadow love’s presence.
Each day, Gary visited his grandparents’ graves as an act of respect and gratitude, offering his love not only to their memory but also to the rose bushes that symbolized their enduring legacy. Order had returned to his life, a reflection of the greater harmony he now recognized within the universe. His growth did not go unnoticed; he became a revered figure in the community, though he humbly attributed this respect to the transformation initiated by his grandfather’s wisdom and love.
This profound evolution reached unexpected ears. Word of Gary’s life and newfound purpose traveled far, eventually reaching his estranged father, now in failing health. Having lost his wife two years prior, Gary’s father was confined to a nursing home, physically cared for but emotionally broken, burdened by the love lost throughout his life. A nurse, unaware of the father-son estrangement, learned of Gary through a local paper and reached out, believing he could provide comfort to his ailing father.
Gary’s initial reaction was resistance.
“I can’t possibly give him what he needs,”
he thought, feeling a deep, sinking emotion as his own past pain rose to the surface. Yet, his heart wrestled with this reluctance. Was this not an opportunity to extend to his father the same gifts his grandfather had given him? The man who once caused him so much pain now stood in need of the love and grace Gary had worked so hard to cultivate.
Gary turned to his wife and son, initiating a heartfelt discussion about the risks and rewards of inviting his father into their lives during his final days. Though the decision was not without its challenges, Gary recognized that offering this love would honor the integrity and spiritual principles he now held dear. Days later, his father arrived, physically frail and struggling with memory loss but able to recall flashes of his and Gary’s shared joys from the past. The family adapted their home to accommodate him, dedicating their family room to his care.
Gary embraced the complexity of this new relationship. Each day, he wheeled his father into the garden, where his father’s spirit seemed to ease in the presence of the blooming roses. These moments were simple yet profound, a meeting point between past wounds and present healing. His father, drawn to two particular rose bushes near the house, took solace in their beauty. Gary later revealed to him that these bushes marked the resting place of his parents, who had always left a place in their hearts for their long-estranged son.
Tears filled his father’s eyes upon hearing those words, and in that moment, years of estrangement melted away. Love, in its purest and most unconditional form, filled the space between them. Gary, for the first time in his life, felt profound gratitude for his father—not for the man’s actions, but for the divine essence he now recognized in him, a reflection of the Creator’s love.
On the final day of his life, as his father gazed one last time at the rose bushes, Gary ensured he was surrounded by peace and love. After his passing, his father was buried beside his own parents, fulfilling his final wish. The family planted a third rose bush in his honor, which soon grew as vibrant and exceptional as its companions. It became a symbol of healing, redemption, and the enduring cycles of life and love.
The family vowed to rest beside their ancestors when their time came, completing the sacred circle of generational reconciliation. Together, they honored the ultimate gift of healing, passing it forward and outward to all who crossed their path.
.
We are all gardeners, tending to the roses in our lives. While we trim the thorns of those we love, we must also allow our own thorns to be carefully pruned. This is not just the essence of healing but the foundation of creating something greater.
Thank you to my wife, Sharon White, for her unwavering encouragement as I continue to heal from the brokenness that once silenced me.
This story is proof that we are, indeed, heard, and through that hearing, we are healed.
Recovery brings peace, the peace that passes understanding of our higher calling to us in this life.
“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give to you.” – Jesus of Nazareth
