I spent quite a bit of time living with young women, part of a Charismatic Christian Community in Minneapolis and St. Paul, MN, while I was going to classes at the College of St. Catherine, a Catholic women’s college.
At the time I was a campus minister at Minot State University’s Catholic Student Center, what they sometimes called the Newman Center. I worked in team ministry with a young priest, Father Bob Kippley, who needed someone like me who was outgoing and not afraid to do outreach on the campus with students, faculty and staff. We were nearly the perfect team because he was quiet, thoughtful, devout and I am not. Not like he was, anyway.
We wanted to learn from other ministry programs that were having success with the diverse population we encountered in our ministry and the program that trained and sent out NET (National Evangelization Teams) seemed right up our alley. It was ecumentical – that means it was open to people of all faiths to participate. We liked that because many at the university took different paths to God and we needed to know more about what they believed and how we could serve them where they were at, not expecting everyone to have the same beliefs as us.
I lived in a house of young women just a block or two off Grant Avenue in St. Paul and although we came from different backgrounds, parts of the country or even different countries, we made a covenant to pray together each morning at 5 a.m. every day. We would sometimes still be in our jammies, but we would gather together for praise, worship, reflection and scripture reading before we headed to work or class or whatever. In the house I lived in, all the women were Christians, but we were of various and different Christian denominations. Yes, there can be BIG differences in the way we live out our Christian lives, even though we are all true Christians.
It was a wonderful summer attending a women’s college, learning some theology taught by monks from the Seminary at St. Thomas which is near and, I believe, closely connected with the College of St. Catherine. We grew to be friends even though we were from different parts of the country and one gal was from Nicaragua, a refugee from political upheaval that was happening in her home nation at the time.
We learned together, too, because we all enjoyed Bible studies together and Christian education scheduled in the evenings or Sunday afternoons. During one such class, we were challenged to pray and ask God to show us how He sees us, individually. Not how the world sees us, not how we see ourselves, but ask Him to show us how He sees us.
I wasn’t quite so sure I wanted to know how God saw me, because as you may know, I have not always been the Christian woman that God calls us to be. I know sin is a constant struggle for me, perhaps it always will be. But I mustered the courage anyway to begin praying that prayer.
It didn’t take long and I believe He answered me.
I awakened early one morning, just after dawn and after looking over at the alarm clock beside me set for 5 a.m. I thought, I have another almost hour to sleep, so I shut my eyes.
Now, maybe I fell asleep and dreamed this, or maybe it was God answering my prayer, or both – but what I saw in my imagination was a fully mature white rose, just a full blooming rose and stem with a couple of leaves attached to the stem. My initial thought was, “A rose? My favorite flower is a daisy!”
But I no sooner thought those words when it started to rain, a fine, misty rain, fell for a few moments and as the droplets hit the flower, each time it wilted a little more and curled into itself, petals falling, stem bowing down and when the rain stopped altogether the flower was nearly decayed and destroyed, “yes, Lord,” I thought. I saw what sin did to the rose that might have been me. I admitted it was right to happen. I had allowed many things to damage what I was, who I could be.
But just as quickly it started up again, that fine mist-like rain. But this time the rain was different.
It wasn’t clear water like rain from the sky, it was blood red. As each droplet hit the dead flower, it washed away the decay, the curled up petals, the bowed down stem and when it stopped again that full blown white rose was standing proud and whole and healed because it occurred to me that it was the blood of Christ that was shed for me that healed my poor sad rose-self. That was my interpretation of it all. But it was no longer a white rose, you see, it was a big, beautiful pink rose – stained by the blood that was shed for its healing, my healing.
Now it seems as if I see pink roses wherever I go and they are a reminder to me, that God is still at work in my life and I am still in need of his love, forgiveness and help with my sin. If God can love and heal me, with all the things I have done in my life, maybe He will have a pink rose for you, too, or some other way of blessing and reaching out to you with love. All you have to do is ask.
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