It was January 31, 1980 and I had just learned that my elementary school principal, Mr. D. G. White, had died.  Death had come quietly as he slept, its presence discovered by his wife that morning.  Growing up I had always viewed him as a Santa Claus shaped man, minus the beard, who could strike fear into the heart of a school child as easily as he could make them smile.  His wife was my third grade teacher, the one who made it her mission in life to correct my method of grasping a pencil while writing.  By the end of the school year I had conformed to the acceptable position of the pencil resting on my middle finger, guided by my index finger and thumb instead of it scooting down a finger and being clutched by my entire hand.  Every time we practiced our handwriting, she would stroll up and down the rows of desks, always pausing beside mine, always repositioning my hand.  I’m not sure she would have let me out of third grade had I not mastered that skill—and I hate to break it to her, but arthritic thumbs have given me just cause to revert back to my original pencil pushing position.  Hopefully, she can forgive me.

For reasons I really can’t explain, his death touched me greatly—possibly because he was one of the first major figures from my childhood to travel from this world to the next.  I had only been out of college for a year and a half, married for slightly more than a year, and still very new to this independent adult thing.  While pondering his death and trying to imagine how his wife must feel, I tried to think of something I could do for her.  A visit didn’t seem to be in order and food preparation isn’t really a spur of the moment thing.  I settled upon a single red rose, delivered to her house, rather than waiting to have something sent to the funeral home and possibly lost in what I believed would be a mass of floral tributes.  The arrangements were made, the flower delivered and, when I saw her at the visitation, not a word was mentioned.  I didn’t expect her to say anything, but when she didn’t it made me wonder.  Did she actually receive the rose?  Did she recognize the name on the card?  It really didn’t matter, as long as it told her that someone, somewhere, was thinking of her.

Years later I saw her again; I don’t remember where or why.  But as we spoke she smiled thoughtfully, her mind moving backwards in time, and she mentioned a single red rose, sent by someone she held dear, someone she would always remember for a kindness shown.  And as she smiled she looked at me and I knew that she had known.

Sometimes it isn’t the big things that have the greatest impact.  Sometimes a thoughtful gesture, a few minutes to listen, a simple I’m sorry, can do more to alleviate the suffering and pain of grief than some monumental offering.  Nothing will ever have the power of a magic wand, banishing the feelings of loss for all eternity and lifting the burden from the hearts of those who grieve, but sometimes that one small act—that single red rose—speaks volumes, for it says that someone cares.

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