Miss Havisham's Roses

There is a poignant beauty in Miss Havisham’s roses. (see Dickens, Great Expectations).

They still speak of a love which was strong. But in Miss Havisham’s case, it was a love without sacrifice, a love without commitment, a love that ultimately wavered, leaving Miss Havisham a Miss for all of her life.

I always refer to roses at this state as Miss Havisham’s roses, but in fact mine came from a husband who has loved sacrificially, totally committed, unconditionally. So they are not, strictly speaking, anything like her roses.

The beauty of the Cross is that it speaks of a love that is so strong, so unconditional, so sacrificial, so committed, that it never wilts nor dies but just remains there for us all. As we cling to the Cross we cling to the Lord who gave his all for the whole world, whose love transcends time, nationality, religion and gender, unconditional, eternal.

I love Miss Havisham’s roses, and fresher ones too, but even more, I love the Cross. Full of gratitude to the God who died for me.

Miss Havisham's Roses

On the table before me is a crystal vase filled with fading roses, given to me by my Valentine a couple of weeks ago. There is something about them that prevents me tossing them into the compost heap. Something beautiful about their colours, fading, the edges of the petals going brown and thin and crinkly as paper. I threw a couple out today which were edging towards black. But the majority remain, red and peach coloured, cream and pink.

My Valentine and I have been married now for nearly 37 years. So maybe I see us in these fading roses. Still got some colour, a spark of life. Not yet black and limp. Not yet ready for the compost heap.

I finished re-reading Great Expectations on Sunday morning. It is one of my very favourite books. Miss Havisham and her roses. Fading and yellowing together. Dying incrementally. A testament in her eyes to a love betrayed and never consummated. Something a bit creepy about her deliberate strategy of revenge to be wreaked on the male gender – in the book, on poor innocent Pip.

Poor Miss Havisham, just wanted to be loved.

There is such a deep urge in each one of us to love and to be loved.

I wonder where that comes from, if we all just ‘happened’ into being as a result of a cosmic big bang not underpinned by an intelligence far beyond us.

I think it’s pretty obvious that the basic building block of life is Love.

Don’t you?

Miss Havisham's Roses

On the table before me is a crystal vase filled with fading roses, given to me by my Valentine a couple of weeks ago. There is something about them that prevents me tossing them into the compost heap. Something beautiful about their colours, fading, the edges of the petals going brown and thin and crinkly as paper. I threw a couple out today which were edging towards black. But the majority remain, red and peach coloured, cream and pink.

My Valentine and I have been married now for nearly 37 years. So maybe I see us in these fading roses. Still got some colour, a spark of life. Not yet black and limp. Not yet ready for the compost heap.

I finished re-reading Great Expectations on Sunday morning. It is one of my very favourite books. Miss Havisham and her roses. Fading and yellowing together. Dying incrementally. A testament in her eyes to a love betrayed and never consummated. Something a bit creepy about her deliberate strategy of revenge to be wreaked on the male gender – in the book, on poor innocent Pip.

Poor Miss Havisham, just wanted to be loved.

There is such a deep urge in each one of us to love and to be loved.

I wonder where that comes from, if we all just ‘happened’ into being as a result of a cosmic big bang not underpinned by an intelligence far beyond us.

I think it’s pretty obvious that the basic building block of life is Love.

Don’t you?