A ROSE FOR MARGARET

            Margaret was beaming as we walked home from school on that early spring day in the mid-1950’s.   “Doesn’t it seem like the whole world is smiling?” she asked.

I certainly wasn’t smiling.  Sister Bonaventure, our eighth-grade nun, had just announced the names of the six girls who would comprise the honor guard for the parish May Crowning.  Despite my yearlong effort to raise my grades (which I had) and grow in personal holiness (which I had not), I was not among the six. Even more astonishing, Margaret had been chosen.  It was she who would wear a long blue dress (“No bows, sequins or flashy decorations, girls”), she who would carry flowers up the center aisle of the packed church, every eye upon her, while the rest of the school sang, “Oh Mary, we crown thee…” It wasn’t fair.

“Life isn’t always fair,” my mother pointed out that evening at home.  “Besides, you’ve had several success this year---winning the spelling bee, being elected class treasurer….  Margaret hasn’t had many chances to feel special.”

That was true.  Margaret, shy and plump, the youngest of a raucous family, was overlooked even in her own busy household.  Why she had been selected for this honor was anyone’s guess, but my Christian duty was clear: I was supposed to feel happy for my friend.  I was again failing in personal holiness.

“I do hope,” Mother said, frowning, “that Margaret can find a blue dress that fits.”

My mother was tactful but I saw her point.  What if Margaret had trouble finding a gown to fit her ample proportions, something blue and without elaborate decorations?  If that happened, my skinniness would be a decided last-minute advantage.  I went to bed with visions of a blue dress dancing in my head.

The next day I met Margaret at the corner as usual, and noted that her customary slouch had been replaced with a brisk, shoulders-back stance.  Her eyes sparkled. “You look different,” I told her.

“I do?” She grinned broadly.  “I guess I’m excited.  Mom is taking me shopping for my May Crowning dress tomorrow.  No hand-me-downs this time!”

“What if you can’t find one?” I asked, somewhat boldly.

“Oh, I will.  I’ve asked Saint Therese to take care of it for me,” Margaret said.

My spirits plummeted.  If Saint Therese was on the job, the dress was as good as hanging in Margaret’s closet.

Margaret and I had been nine or ten when the nuns introduced us to Saint Therese.  The nuns liked all saints, of course, considering them and the angels as the aunts and uncles of the church community.  (And wouldn’t we ask advice or help from senior members of the clan?)  But God had given Therese, the Little Flower, special abilities.  According to tradition, if one sought a favor from heaven, Saint Therese would send that person a rose if the favor was to be granted.

Margaret and I had tried it out right away.  We requested a rose if I was going to win the essay contest.  A rose appeared one week later, lying in our path on the way to school.  Margaret’s brothers had teased us, pointing out that earlier, a florist truck had parked in that exact place to make a delivery. But Margaret and I weren’t fussy about how we got our favor from Saint Therese---and I won the essay contest the very next day.

“You’ll pray for me, won’t you?” Margaret asked now as we reached school. I saw a hint of the old uncertainly on her face.

“Well, sure,” I answered.  It was only a little lie, I decided quickly.  Besides, Margaret wasn’t going to need my prayers.  Saint Therese was a special friend of Jesus’ mother, Mary, and Margaret wanted a blue dress so she could look beautiful for Mary.  Saint Therese and the angels were probably arranging the whole thing at this very moment.

Margaret called me late Saturday afternoon. She and her mother had spent all day downtown looking at dresses and came home empty-handed. “They’re all either too old for me or too small,” Margaret explained, dejected.

“Don’t worry,” I said, mustering a loyal tone, “you’ve got three Saturdays left.”  Secretly, of course, I was delighted.

Two more fruitless weekends passed, and Margaret, who had started to look so confidant, so alive, was slowly slipping back into her shell.  “Weren’t there any blue dresses?” I asked.

“None that were right for the occasion,” Margaret sighed.  “Are you sure you’re praying for me?”

“Of course I’m sure!” I squirmed uncomfortably.  “Your rose will come.”

Walking home in the early dusk, I faced the situation honestly.  There was so little time remaining before the May Crowning, so few stores left to visit.  Saint Therese was obviously saying “no” to Margaret---and that probably meant a “yes” for me (I had recently noticed Sister Bonaventure glancing at my easy-to-fit frame).  It was simply a matter of time.

Only…why did the knowledge bring pain instead of the joy I had anticipated?  Margaret was so unhappy, and I felt like the worst friend in the world…  As if a dam had burst inside, I heard myself begging Saint Therese for a rose and a blue dress, this time for Margaret.  “Just a plain one,” I reminded the Saint, “something appropriate for the occasion.”

A few days later as we walked home from school, Margaret shifted her books and looked at me. “I’m giving up,” she said quietly.  “I’m going to tell Sister Bonaventure tomorrow.”

My mouth dropped. “No, you can’t!”

“I have to!  There’s only one Saturday left before the rehearsal.  There’s no place else to look. I guess I’m just too….” Margaret’s voice broke.

“Don’t!” I dropped my books and hugged her hard, feeling my throat constrict, the tears spilling down my cheeks.  I had cried for myself many times.  But now I knew that nothing hurt more than not being able to help a friend.  “Try just this one last Saturday,” I pleaded.  “What do you have to lose?”

She wiped her eyes.  “I’ll ask Mom.”

I bombarded Saint Therese for the rest of the week, avoiding Sister Bonaventure and pressing my family into prayer duty.  My parents, amazed at my sudden growth in personal holiness, obligingly mentioned the matter each day during their morning prayers; my sister and I took the evening shift.

The days dragged.  Saturday arrived, and no rose had appeared.  I resisted the impulse to buy one and put it in Margaret’s mailbox.  Saint Therese could not be manipulated.  If it were to be a “no,” we would simply have to accept it.

At six o’clock that evening, the phone rang.  Margaret’s jubilant voice was on the other end.  “We found one!”

“Oh, Margaret!”  My heart soared.  A quick vision of myself in a beautiful blue dress shimmered in front of me, then vanished in a wisp.  I was glad to see it go.  This was so much better, so right in every way.  “Is it blue?”

“Blue and modest and unadorned,” she assured me.  “I won’t take it out of the box until you get here.”

I dashed for the door.  Strange that Saint Therese had granted the favor without sending a rose first. Well, that was something I’d ask God about later.  I bounded up Margaret’s front porch steps and into the living room, filled with Margaret’s beaming family.  For the first time, she was the center of attention.  “Open the box!” I demanded.

And as she did so, the soft tissue falling away, I saw the delicate pink rosebuds scattered like tiny kisses along the neckline.

Margaret’s mother gasped.  “We didn’t see rosebuds on this dress in the store, not when Margaret tried it on.  How on earth…..?

Margaret’s eyes met mine.  We knew how.  The Little Flower had sent this dress and something even more precious, the gift of love.  Margaret, learning to love herself, would make an exquisite honor guard for Mary’s May Crowning.  And I, learning to love others, would be the proudest person there.

© by Joan Wester Anderson, Published Angels on Earth Magazine May/June 2007