Samuel had often told her that too much pride was never a good thing, that they must strive to be humble. The Lord would reward that. But Rose couldn't help the swell of pride she felt within her when she looked at her garden. It was the one thing that distinguished her to the villagers and parishioners as being more than just the minister's sister. When the children from Sunday School came over on summer afternoons, she always cut a flower or two for them to take back to their mothers, and thus the whole parish came to be astonished by her skills, and if they could catch her by herself and not following after Samuel as usual, they would tell her, and she would go away blushing as if they had complimented her dress or hair.
No one within miles grew roses like she did, Rose had been blessed with a deep love for the flower who's name she shared. She would never of course, be as beautiful as they were, but they were like her, both delicate and strong at the same time.
And so it was no wonder when Samuel had told her about Africa and the good work they would be doing, her first thought had not been about herself, but for her roses. Do you suppose my garden will grow there? she asked, blinking back tears as the reality of everything set in. Samuel had merely brushed her off and told her to focus on more important things.
She had found out quickly. Roses do not thrive in Africa. Every time she had hoped, and every time it had been the same. The little blooms wilted, they couldn't take this strange land. Sometimes she felt like she couldn't either.
Perhaps, she thought, I might end up just like them. Another wilted Rose.