Just when the roses in the church yard were blooming and fading in lively competition, an unexpected shipment arrived at the church office: 150 rose saplings, accompanied by a single letter.

“…These roses of love are a gift, asking you to remember those who have died of AIDS and the families they left behind. …People are dying in great numbers, and their families are in deep pain. …Please pray for us.”

Strangers—people whose grief and sorrow over losing loved ones could not be expressed in words—were asking us to plant roses in the barren fields of our hearts.

Though the request carried a weight of prayer, I couldn’t help feeling excited; I had never received so many rose saplings in my life. Imagining how delighted the congregation would be, I began calling members, asking them to bring a shovel and come to church. But to my surprise, one person responded with clear discomfort.

“…Those people got sick and died because they lived wrongly. What does that have to do with us? And planting roses they sent in the holy church yard—somehow that doesn’t feel right.”

Already intoxicated by the imagined beauty and fragrance of the rose garden a year or ten years from now, I was taken aback by the sharp tone on the other end of the phone.

Flustered, I replied, “…Well, yes… but these days even medical workers contract the virus while working in hospitals. Mothers undergoing C‑sections, accident victims, or patients needing transfusions can be infected unexpectedly. Nineteen percent of Harlem’s population carries the virus, and more than thirty million people worldwide are infected. We must begin to care and pray for them…”

Hearing sermons every time one opens their eyes must have rubbed off on me—I found myself delivering a full “telephone sermon.” Yet afterward, my heart felt heavy and disappointed.

Then suddenly, a gentle whisper stirred within me: “You feel frustrated? I have always felt your frustration.” And I saw myself—lighter than a breath (Psalm 62:9)—trying to control and refuse God’s abundant grace in my own way.

Soon, members rolled up their suit pants and white shirtsleeves, and even the one who had objected earlier was sweating hard, digging with earnest effort. Children ran around with hoses, splashing water everywhere in the name of “watering the roses,” soaking adults and children alike in mud and laughter.

In no time, all 150 rose saplings found their places throughout the church grounds.

As I looked at the young roses rejoicing in their new soil, I felt a pang of tenderness. How many stepping‑stones of pain and sorrow had these flowers crossed to arrive here?

Roses are sent when joy is at its highest, when one longs to express love, or when words of comfort cannot be found. Today they whisper softly, “Remember us.” But soon, the burning reds, yellows, pinks, and whites they will release will stir a beautiful commotion of love across the dry wilderness of our hearts.

– WanHee Yoon, 1998