Roses are red

May 22, 2011
        I tug at the sleeve of my dress as I hurry up the aisle, at such a quick pace that no well-meaning member can attack me with a smothering of love. I half-trip up the stairs to the stand before settling on the organ bench and flipping the on-switch.

I repeat to myself how much I love Rose and her family. They have been amazing through all of this. Just a couple weeks ago, after some argument with my parents—I can’t even remember what it was now—I’d called, and her mom, Sister Campbell, had picked me up. No questions asked, no explanation needed. I'd slept over at their house and made cookies and watched movies and was just silly. I was just myself.

So, when Sister Campbell asked me to play organ for her this Sunday, so she could sit with her husband on his birthday, I couldn’t reasonably say no. Not to mention Brother Cramer’s threat hanging over my head.

Mom was stunned speechless when I walked downstairs this morning, all dressed to go to church. She’s been asking me to come for months, but in all the wrong ways. I told her my plan to leave right after sacrament meeting though and she was less surprised by that.

Now, zoning back in on the organ, I select a couple stops and adjust the volume. Prelude music is the easiest part because no one is listening yet. .

Three hymns, two speakers and half of the postlude later, it begins.

First it’s Brother Cramer, laughing and telling me he’s glad he didn’t have to drag me to church in my sweats. Then it’s Sister Batistich, my primary teacher and young women’s leader, sitting next to me on the bench to give me a hug and tell me how much she’s missed me. After that there’s Sister Caringal and Brother Speer and Sister Ibarra, all fulfilling their Mormon duty to welcome me back into the freaking fold.

I’m back at church after six months and they’re treating me like I died or something. It’s ridiculous. The last thing I wanted on my first Sunday back was this much attention. I’m ready to cut my postlude short and make a break for it when Rose approaches the organ.

I tense, just because so many people have said well-meaning offensive things already.

“Hey! This is one of my favorite skirts of yours, just so you know.”

I should’ve known. Rose has never treated me any differently and I adore her for it.

I laugh and thank her. She continues, “Isn’t that the skirt you made during that young women’s activity?”

“With the crazy sewing lady?”

She giggles back. “Yeah that’s the one!”

Rose keeps up an easy conversation with me and the next thing I know, I’m sitting in between her and the wall in Sunday School. She fends off more good-doers from making me even more self-conscious and just.. talks to me. Like I’m a regular human being. Like I haven’t been absent for so long. Like one of my best friends.

And she is, I realize. I guess nine years of steady friendship and sleep overs and doodling together during church will do that. I need more people like her fighting on my side.

I escape after Sunday School with an apologetic smile to Rose. She gives me a half smile and even as I walk out the church doors, I know that with Rose here, with her help, with her companionship, I can come back.

She's a redhead.. that's why the title of this post is funny..