The Last Rose of Summer

Roses are bred with unique names--Moonbeam, Ballerina, Mt. Hood. Every once in a while a great one is created, and its name is remembered for generations. The Peace rose is one such iconic name. Someone needs to create a vivid pink rose and name it Lucille.

Lucille is the name of my grandmother, born in August of 1919. My grandfather married her when I was nine years old, after my first grandmother died of cancer. He nearly died too, of grief. Then he met Lucille, and I don't think they stopped laughing together, the entire twenty years of their marriage. He built a home for her, on the same street as my parents, knowing that he would leave her a widow, and let her decorate the whole house in mauvy tints of pink. For my World War II Colonel grandfather, spoiling her in their dainty home was a first class act. He took her to almost every civilized country in the world, and a few dangerously uncivil ones too. He strengthened her with his priesthood and his devotion, and he made her queen in his kingdom. When he passed, he left his home and his money and his treasures all to his precious Lucille.

Lucille is now 91 years old, and a lot has changed for her since those world traveler days. Most weeks she is too tired to go to church, but she is thrilled when the deacons bring the Sacrament to her home. She doesn't always remember who I am, but she discerns my mood within seconds. It has been my privilege to coordinate her care these past few years, and I have loved every minute I have spent with her. From her, I have learned enough to write a dozen entries, but today I am thinking about specific lessons that teach purity, beauty, faith, endurance and generosity. Her life has been one of my favorite sermons.

Caring for an elderly person is new for me. It nourishes me to care for her body, just as if she were a newborn. Her purity personifies the Savior's request that we become as a little child. Dressing and bathing her are gifts of reverent love as I tenderly wash and powder her paper-thin skin. She is sexless now, and unashamed. Bringing her comfort is my privilege. Still, she is beautiful, and a woman. She stands taller when a man offers to take her arm. Her favorite visitor is the chaplain from hospice. She draws open her curtains each morning, drinking in the changing scenery in her yard, noticing the blooming and fading of each flower of her garden. Beauty is what sustains her: it is the blood in her veins.

Faith, however, is the marrow in her bones. Her prayers are personal and vibrant, and those who share her thoughts know how close the angels are. A few weeks ago, she prayed for "an interesting day". Even before she closed that prayer, someone knocked on her front door. All through the day visitor after visitor came into her home; all through the day she was greeted by those who love her, coming unannounced to see her. She prays simply, for those she loves, and those she knows are in need. Her prayers are answered.

Old age is not for the faint-hearted. Mostly, these days I learn about endurance from Grandmother Lucille. One day Ernie watched from the window as she tried to stand up from the sofa to answer his knock on the front door. He watched her try seventeen times before she was finally successful. She struggles to eat and drink, and her fear at descending our front steps is only overcome by her trust in those who are helping her walk. At this stage of her life, nothing is easy. Every breath, every swallow, every step, every word, every thought--every action is a mountain of effort.

Such a struggle to live brings me to the most amazing strength of all: Lucille's example of generosity. Wouldn't it be easy in her situation to complain? To be cross and ornery and self absorbed? She isn't. Every laborious breath, with very rare exception, is focused on those around her. Are we comfortable? Happy? Working too hard? Hungry? Thirsty? She is alive because of her concern for us, I am sure of it.

I love an Irish song, and sang it last year at a recital. As I learned the words, I realized this song is about Lucille. These are the lyrics:

'Tis the last rose of summer left blooming alone
All her lovely companions are faded and gone
No flower of her kindred, no rosebud is nigh
To reflect back her blushes and give sigh for sigh

I'll not leave thee, thou lone one, to pine on the stem
Since the lovely are sleeping, go sleep thou with them
Thus kindly I scatter thy leaves o'er the bed
Where thy mates of the garden lie scentless and dead

So soon may I follow when friendships decay
And from love's shining circle the gems drop away
When true hearts lie withered and fond ones are flown
Oh who would inhabit this bleak world alone?

I thought this week we might be losing dear Grandmother Lucille. She was ill, and nearly unresponsive to me. She was not comforted by my presence, more preoccupied with the next world than ours, talking to her mother, remembering long-ago events. It seems selfish to want her to stay, when in the next world it is always Spring and the roses are always in bloom. But it is not my selfishness keeping her here; I simply didn't factor in her strength. As soon as the antibiotic began its healing, Lucille returned to her mortal journey, blessing us with her faith, beauty, purity, endurance and generosity. I will pay careful attention. She is a vivid bloom.