To Rosie Orene
A year ago, the most influential person in my life passed away. I wrote the words below a year ago in reflection of her influence.
Rosie Orene was born on a day no one remembers in a year no one recalls, in a place too soon forgotten. She grew up poor when poor wasn’t noble. Her father was a drunk, her siblings were transient, and as a little girl she sat beside her mother’s bed as she slipped from this world into Beulah Land.
She grew up the audience of violence, watching her father and brothers fight over booze money and the last spoon of peas. She lived in the gritty reality of a romanticized world and was all too often its victim.
Like the other great heroes and heroines of human history, her adolescence is untold, but maybe that is best for all of us, to protect her innocence and the great magnitude of her selflessness. Still, she grew to be a woman, a wife, and a mother.
As a woman, she was anything but dainty. She had more in common with “Rosie the Riveter” than merely a name…she worked—hard. Whether it was in an elementary school lunchroom, a chicken processing plant, or a row of butter beans, she never showed any hint of slothfulness. But she didn’t work for the pursuit of money or prosperity. She considered it a privilege to have a job and a blessing to get up in the morning to work--an attribute lost on more than just this generation. She didn’t wear makeup, never owned a pair of high heels, but she kept hair appointments. She was every bit a woman, despite what the world wants a woman to be.
As a wife, she was fiercely faithful. She kept the house straight for her husband, despite working herself, and cared enough for him to bear him four children.
As a mother, she was completely selfless. She gave to her children to see that their every need was met. They would drain her, and when she was empty, they would siphon her fumes. Some may have thought she gave too much, but that was who she was—always willing to give without condition, to love without question. She lived in the skin of the gospel.
Her maternal instincts extended to her grandchildren, to whom she gave even more. She was the prime example, never heeded. She was the one who spoke softly, yet never yielded. She was the one who loved much but was loved so little.
She goes home to be with the One who will love her beyond any of our simple, human attempts.
She is a woman as beautiful as her name.
CPT
Rosie Orene was born on a day no one remembers in a year no one recalls, in a place too soon forgotten. She grew up poor when poor wasn’t noble. Her father was a drunk, her siblings were transient, and as a little girl she sat beside her mother’s bed as she slipped from this world into Beulah Land.
She grew up the audience of violence, watching her father and brothers fight over booze money and the last spoon of peas. She lived in the gritty reality of a romanticized world and was all too often its victim.
Like the other great heroes and heroines of human history, her adolescence is untold, but maybe that is best for all of us, to protect her innocence and the great magnitude of her selflessness. Still, she grew to be a woman, a wife, and a mother.
As a woman, she was anything but dainty. She had more in common with “Rosie the Riveter” than merely a name…she worked—hard. Whether it was in an elementary school lunchroom, a chicken processing plant, or a row of butter beans, she never showed any hint of slothfulness. But she didn’t work for the pursuit of money or prosperity. She considered it a privilege to have a job and a blessing to get up in the morning to work--an attribute lost on more than just this generation. She didn’t wear makeup, never owned a pair of high heels, but she kept hair appointments. She was every bit a woman, despite what the world wants a woman to be.
As a wife, she was fiercely faithful. She kept the house straight for her husband, despite working herself, and cared enough for him to bear him four children.
As a mother, she was completely selfless. She gave to her children to see that their every need was met. They would drain her, and when she was empty, they would siphon her fumes. Some may have thought she gave too much, but that was who she was—always willing to give without condition, to love without question. She lived in the skin of the gospel.
Her maternal instincts extended to her grandchildren, to whom she gave even more. She was the prime example, never heeded. She was the one who spoke softly, yet never yielded. She was the one who loved much but was loved so little.
She goes home to be with the One who will love her beyond any of our simple, human attempts.
She is a woman as beautiful as her name.
CPT
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