What’s Up with the Roses? Part 2 He’s Called Me Rose

Our home in San Diego overlooked a major freeway.  There was noise from the vehicles day and night. Right beside the freeway was a landfill. When we first bought our house, the landfill was a site for bulldozers and heavy equipment.  In a few years it looked almost idyllic sitting beside the never-ending traffic.  Where bulldozers once roamed the land, grasses grew, along with the California poppies in the spring. 

Our family room looked out on the freeway and frequently I would stand at the window watching the vehicles whizzing down the road.   This is also the room where I would have my quiet time and prayer time. 

I had a season in my life while living there, that I struggled with my first name, Mary.   That sounds silly, I know, but it was a real struggle for me.

I was raised a Catholic, and my parents named me after my aunt Jane.  She too was Mary Catherine, but my Mom once told me they called her Jane because she was a plain Jane.  Not a winning argument in me liking the name Mary. 

My family called me Cathi.  I was used to that.  I like it.  I had a rude awakening when I entered first grade though.  Being a Catholic school there were many Mary’s.  Mary Kay, Mary Ann, Mary Beth, you get the idea.  Each of the girls was called by their full name.  I was just called Mary.  I dislike being called Mary.  It’s a beautiful name, and I am finally beginning to like it, but I prefer my full name or Cathi.  

It was during this season in 1991 when I was wrestling with God about my name.  Often during my quiet time I would hear Him speak to me about my name.  I wrote in my journal one day in October of that year that I need to accept that I am Mary.  I needed to accept who I am.  I continued to write in my journal the following: “You need to accept who you are. Just as you are a Rose- you are a wild one, not cultivated and pruned and restricted.  You are an individual”.  I remember after writing this looking out the family room window imagining a wild rose growing on the hillside of the landfill.   A wild rose that no one really notices, but is there.  I saw the rose as pink, I don’t know why. 

Recently I went back in my journals and saw this entry.  I went online and researched pink roses.  Wild roses are likely to be pink; they are a symbol of love and admiration, and a carrier of secrets.

So many years ago I heard about wild roses.  I had a deck full of cultivated roses, and I never thought of a wild rose.  Years ago our Lord was telling me that I may not be noticed, but He noticed me.  He loves me and He knows me. 

Isaiah 43:1b says, ““Do not be afraid, for I have ransomed you. I have called you by name; you are mine.”

I rest knowing that I am His. 

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