As published
in:
And
the Angeles Were Silent
by Max Lucado
and
Stories
for the Heart: The Original Collection
Compiled by Alice Gray
THE
PEOPLE WITH THE ROSES
by Max Lucado
John
Blanchard stood up from the bench, straightened his Army uniform,
and studied the crowd of people making their way through Grand
Central Station. He looked for the girl whose heart he knew,
but whose face he didn't, the girl with the rose.
His interest in her had begun thirteen months before in a
Florida library. Taking a book off the shelf he found himself
intrigued, not with the words of the book, but with the notes
penciled in the margin. The soft handwriting reflected a thoughtful
soul and insightful mind. In the front of the book, he discovered
the previous owner's name, Miss Hollis Maynell.
With time and effort he located her address. She now lived
in New York City. He wrote her a letter introducing himself
and inviting her to correspond. The next day he was shipped
overseas for service in World War II. During the next year
and one month the two grew to know each other through the
mail. Each letter was a seed falling on a fertile heart. A
romance was budding.
Blanchard requested a photograph, but she refused. She felt
that if he really cared, it wouldn't matter what she looked
like.
When the day finally came for him to return from Europe, they
scheduled their first meeting - 7:00 PM at the Grand Central
Station in New York. "You'll recognize me," she
wrote, "by the red rose I'll be wearing on my lapel."
So at 7:00 he was in the station looking for a girl whose
heart he loved, but whose face he'd never seen. I'll let Mr.
Blanchard tell you what happened:
A young woman was coming toward me, her figure long and slim.
Her blonde hair lay back in curls from her delicate ears;
her eyes were blue as flowers. Her lips and chin had a gentle
firmness, and in her pale green suit she was like springtime
come alive. I started toward her, entirely forgetting to notice
that she was not wearing a rose. As I moved, a small, provocative
smile curved her lips. "Going my way, sailor?" she
murmured.
Almost uncontrollably I made one step closer to her, and then
I saw Hollis Maynell.
She was standing almost directly behind the girl. A woman
well past 40, she had graying hair tucked under a worn hat.
She was more than plump, her thick-ankled feet thrust into
low-heeled shoes. The girl in the green suit was walking quickly
away. I felt as though I was split in two, so keen was my
desire to follow her, and yet so deep was my longing for the
woman whose spirit had truly companioned me and upheld my
own.
And there she stood. Her pale, plump face was gentle and sensible,
her gray eyes had a warm and kindly twinkle. I did not hesitate.
My fingers gripped the small worn blue leather copy of the
book that was to identify me to her. This would not be love,
but it would be something precious, something perhaps even
better than love, a friendship for which I had been and must
ever be grateful.
I squared my shoulders and saluted and held out the book to
the woman, even though while I spoke I felt choked by the
bitterness of my disappointment. "I'm Lieutenant John
Blanchard, and you must be Miss Maynell. I am so glad you
could meet me; may I take you to dinner?"
The woman's face broadened into a tolerant smile. "I
don't know what this is about, son," she answered, "but
the young lady in the green suit who just went by, she begged
me to wear this rose on my coat. And she said if you were
to ask me out to dinner, I should go and tell you that she
is waiting for you in the big restaurant across the street.
She said it was some kind of test!"
