Roses

In worship on Palm Sunday a few weeks ago, our team introduced the song “Roses.” It’s a song that has meant so much to me since I heard it a few years ago. I have a long history with roses in general, which is why I think the song resonated in the way that it did.

My history with roses starts with my “Papa.” My maternal grandpa was my first best friend. For me, he was the easiest person to be around. He was magnetic. I didn’t care what we did as long as I was doing it with him, and he was really good at including me in whatever needed to be done.

Besides his family, his pride and joy was his rose garden, which meant when I was at my grandparents’ house every weekend, we spent much of our time together pruning the rose bushes and taking care of the lawn. At five years old, I had a knack for fitting into the back of his canopied truck bed to push the brush forward so he could unload it at the dump. Naturally, I learned early that roses have thorns, so I had my own little gardening gloves and protective gear to help.

I remember people walking by and asking my grandpa if they could have some roses—an anniversary, a birthday, a moment that mattered—and he would always say yes and cut a few for them. Looking back, I think that’s one of the first ways I learned what it looks like to love well—to take something beautiful that you’ve been given and offer it freely to others.

Through this, I came to appreciate the value of roses early on. The colors and smell were hypnotizing, and sure, they had thorns, but that just meant you had to be careful when you were caring for them.

My grandpa passed away from cancer when I was 7, but his mark on my life didn’t fade even a little. The childhood doll I slept with and took everywhere (I still have her) had purple roses on her dress and bonnet, and I named her Rosalina. My mom made up a bedtime story with her and my grandpa as the main characters. My first tattoo was of a rose on the inside of my arm in honor of my grandpa.

I think of him this time of year when the roses are blooming.

My grandpa’s death was like the thorns on the roses we took care of together. A painful part of the beautiful, valuable time that I got to have with him.

The song “Roses” just made sense to me. The lyrics in the chorus are:

“Can't you see that He must've known about the heartbreak long before us,
He must've known about the mistakes, but still He chose us,
planted the tree where He would die, put thorns down the vine, and then He wore them,
love is the blood-red stain, the beauty that the pain exposes,
maybe that's why God made roses.”

I had never thought about the idea that God was responsible for the tree used to make the cross on which His Son would die, as well as the vine used to make the crown of thorns that would mock Him.

We often blame God for the “thorns” in our lives. We think the hurt that we feel is His fault, but God wasn’t the one who made weapons that killed His Son. We did that. Humans did that. Humans used what God made for good and killed Jesus with it.

And yet—that’s not the end of the story.

If there’s one thing I’m still learning, it’s what it means to live, love, and grow right in the middle of both the roses and the thorns.

To live is to stay present—to recognize that even in grief, even in loss, there is still beauty worth noticing.

To love is to keep giving what we’ve been given—like my grandpa did—open-handed, generous, and intentional.

And to grow… sometimes that looks like pruning. Sometimes it looks like pain. But it’s trusting that God is still cultivating something good.

God didn’t take my grandpa from me; being human did. But what I believe God did do is welcome him with open arms when he died. That’s the rose. That’s the beauty. That’s the redemption.

In the rose garden of my life, there are plenty of thorns, but I’m carefully learning how to live, love, and grow in it—trusting that God is shaping something meaningful even when it hurts.

I get to see, smell, and enjoy parts of that garden now, but I also believe it’s not finished yet.

And I bet by the time I get to heaven, it will be in full bloom.

And I bet my Papa will be sitting on his tailgate in that garden, waiting for me.

Maybe that’s why God made roses.

Kelsey Lowe

Worship Producer and Operations Coordinator