Sister in Christ
Rose Hom is my mother’s dearest friend. They’ve known each other since middle school and grew particularly close during their tenure at Point Loma High. Short women, both of them. Rose, a bit shorter and more stalky. I noticed once her having thick, muscular calves, and it’s never escaped me that for such a petite woman, she is quite strong. Perhaps the muscularity in her calves can be attributed to years of walking, as Rose has never owned a car. She’s well versed in the local public transit though, and has been able to get to and fro rather easily, and at her own pace.
Rose also exudes that sort of non-physical strength quiet women often possess: the type of strength built from years of independence, and sometimes cultivated from caring for others, as Rose so vehemently does. She’s lived in the same teal home since I’ve known her: bunches of spinach and green onions bordering her empty driveway. The majority of her time there was spent caring for her elderly, fragile mother. “Mrs. Hom” is the only name I’ve known to call the old woman. But she’s since passed, and Rose lives on her own now, tending the garden daily and attending the Calvary Chapel each Sunday. She often wears the same dark purple, fleece sweater. She has an affinity for lilies and can finish more plates than you’d expect when she eats at the nearby Chinese buffet.
No car. No husband. No children. Rose is a rather simple woman. Her modest and unassuming nature has always been appealing to me.
What’s become even more compelling about Rose, though, is the deep connection I’ve learned her to have with God. Peculiar so is the relationship she has with my own mother. They refer to each other as “Sister in Christ,” and not in any ingenuine way. They sincerely believe the other to carry a piece of themselves, in a way that is profound and spiritual. Since before I was born (now 29 years old), my mother and Rose have spent every Saturday morning praying together over the phone. As ritualistic is their weekly prayer as my habitual, twice daily teeth-brushing. If ever we were out of town, my mom would create the time and space for their weekly prayer. I can see her from a second floor hotel window - she sits in the front seat of the car, a perfectly confined prayer capsule, eyes closed and in communication with God. Rose, of course, on the line too. If a special occasion or family emergency would happen upon a Saturday morning, my mother and Rose would plan to hold their prayer on the previous day, or make up for it the following. More than one Saturday morning breakfast has been delayed because of an extended prayer session - food and family ready at the table, but no mom in her seat. What they pray about is of course quite personal, though I have made several assumptions. Of what now amounts to months worth of prayer hours, I’ve heard mere minutes of the dialogue that’s taken place between my mom, Rose, and God.
Not until recently did I realize that, given the relationship Rose and my mother have, Rose and I too are somewhat interdependent. I had considered her to be a background character: a woman who’d appeared only in the manner an acquaintance would, and not much more than a friend of my mom’s. Only lately did I notice that Rose has perhaps had more of an impact on my life, and in a metaphysical sense, than most anyone. Rose has lifted my own concerns in health or relationships, and moments of indecision, to her God. Rose has had conversations with the divine on my behalf, and without my knowing, since before I was even born. I know that whenever I’ve expressed the slightest sadness or discomfort to my mother, that this has been brought forth to God, with Rose as an echo and as a witness. Rose, in this way, has been a catalyst too for my own mother’s strength. In my mother’s most vulnerable moments - where she’s called to God in pain or contemplation, when she’s confided in God over her own life or that of her children, when she’s emptied herself of her own image, with hopes that God’s driving force would take control - she’s had Rose beside her to pray in unison: a Sister in Christ who could bring volume to her pleas.
Rose has been much more than a supporting character all along.
Much of my life I have felt an immense gratitude for my well-being, relationship with the world, and the like. How often I’ve considered that a universal force has been conspiring in my favor; that I’ve been blessed with the gifts in one, that I’d think would only be possible across several lifetimes. Perhaps this has come only because someone has asked for it? Maybe the blessings I’ve felt are the result of my mother’s prayers, and Rose’s simultaneous pleas to God? If in the moments I’ve walked alone, but knew I wasn’t truly by myself, if someone had asked for my protection? And only because of this plea, not even a plea from my own heart, was I then able to walk in strength and comfort?
So many times have I been on the other side of my mom’s closed bedroom door, knowing she was in prayer, but not fully understanding the weight of her ritual; knowing that she was speaking to Rose, but not understanding that they were together only as souls and only with God; knowing that they were talking, but not understanding that their collective voice in these moments might be the impetus for my own conversations, in gratitude, with the divine. Now when I pray on my own, I do so on behalf of my mother and Rose, my sisters in Christ, and so the universe may conspire in their favor.
