Summer is here, whichÂ means the roses are in bloom.Â And wow: that “Bewitched” rose I planted two years ago is en fuego.Â It is busting out buds like you wouldn’t believe.Â Â Every day I’m snipping more blooms to take into the house.Â I adore them.
Sometimes, the problem is figuring out where to put them for maximum effect.
I tried a lovely triad of blooms on my dresser, next to the Mary statue:
Yes, very nice … but somehow, they are even nicer on my writing desk:
“Writing desk” sounds a bit grander than the reality.Â Often, it ends up being more of a holding ground for books, or things I need to take back to the store, or my husband’s clothes when he doesn’t have time to put them away. (He uses Luke’s closet, since the one in our room is too small for a couple to share and still stay married.Â People must have been mostly naked in the 1940s when this house was built.)Â But since school has been out, I’ve been using this writing desk more and more.Â It gets great afternoon sun, and it has a lovely view of the backyard.Â Â It’s a calm, quiet place.Â Very nice.
Of course, you can’t really take a step in my house without bumping into some picture of Mary.Â The writing desk is no exception.
This is the Our Lady of Perpetual Help that used to be on my grandmother’s dresser.Â I acquired it last summer, during the Christmas in August at my aunt’s house.Â Â On the back, half- hidden, you can see a short explanation of the image, along with the directions to write to the Redemptorist Fathers of Liguori, Missouri for additional copies.Â The frame has some shiny glue on the back, as if the back prop part would not stay open and my grandma (or, more likely, my very handy grandpa) set it firmly in place.
It makes sense to have Our Lady of Perpetual Help on a writing desk.Â Yes,Â I adore writing.Â Other than spending time with the boys, it is when I feel most alive, most like I’m doing something worthwhile.Â But it has its share of rejections, and flat periods, and moments of big-time fear.Â I like the idea of Mary there on my desk, watching me as I scribble, perpetually ready to give a little help.
In the end, I left the roses there, on the writing desk.Â They just seemed to fit.Â I guess you can call them a kind of offering to Mary, for all she offers me.