Gaudete and Promise Rose

Valerie M. Grissom

There shall come forth a shoot from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots. —Isaiah 11:1

The wilderness and the dry land shall be glad, the desert shall rejoice and blossom; like the crocus it shall blossom abundantly, and rejoice with joy and singing. The glory of Lebanon shall be given to it, the majesty of Carmel and Sharon. They shall see the glory of the Lord, the majesty of our God. —Isaiah 35:1-2

Sixteen years ago my husband came home early from work at 9 am—a total surprise. I looked down at my very pregnant belly. We were scheduled to have a C-section the next morning. Ben explained that he had gone into work, and they gathered up all the workers, and said, “Go home. We are closing down everything today.” Now, here he was, standing in front of me, in shock. In the last month, we had gathered all we owned and moved across the country thinking Ben would be working at this confidential military job permanently. But when a new President took office, many military operations were shut down immediately, including this location.

In this moment, it felt as if the floor had fallen beneath me. I tried to look in front of me, but tears flooded my vision, and panic overwhelmed us both. We had just moved all our possessions there, moving miles away from anyone we knew, signed a new lease, taking a risk financially to make this move. Now, what would we do?

In that moment, everything looked dark, bleak, with no hope in sight.

The next morning, my C-section started with a bit of a hiccup. They whisked our newborn girl up because she failed to breathe on her own. Later, in recovery, my husband joined me after running out to assist the nurses with the baby. He came up to me in his blue garb, head to toe, and held my hand gently but said nothing. I looked at him, and said, “What’s wrong?” And he couldn’t speak. Again, I asked more insistently, “What’s wrong?” The nurse attending to me could sense my alarm and spoke up and prompted him, saying, “Tell her the baby is fine.” I could breathe again. And Ben nodded, but still failed to speak. Later, he shared with me how the young nurse attending to our new baby panicked, and a tall, forceful woman, the head of the NICU, stepped in, pushing the young nurse aside,  grabbing our new baby and holding her frantically by her feet, slapping her back, working to help her breath. And then Ben said the cries began, but it was one of the scariest, most helpless moments of his life. That's why he couldn't speak.

My recovery from this C-section was tough. I had nausea and dry heaves so bad I was ripping all my stitches out from vomiting, so they would not let me go right away to see my new baby. If I turned my head even an inch, I would begin vomiting all over again. But I was determined to see my new little girl.

In the middle of the night, hours later, I finally convinced them I could walk enough and come to see her. When they brought me to her and placed her in my arms for the first time, she immediately looked up at me with a smile. Now, I know many people would say that it was just gas, and that I was imagining her smiles, but the thing is, this girl has been smiling ever since.

Unknowingly, but very fittingly, we named our beautiful baby girl according to the liturgical calendar: Promise-Rose. Years earlier, a beautiful, vivacious young woman named Promise introduced me to my husband. Promise died at 26 years, after her third battle with cancer. At her celebration of life, I turned to my husband and asked: “If we ever have a daughter, can we name her Promise?” My husband nodded. So we had planned this name earlier, but this name Promise took on new meaning in this time of uncertainty. This baby symbolized God’s Promise to always be with us, no matter what. And God, Emmanuel (“God with us”) was with us.

Later, I found out that my daughter was also born on the Third Week of Advent, when some people celebrate Gaudete Sunday.  You can read more about Gaudete Sunday here: What is Gaudete Sunday? Meaning, History, and Traditions

Gaudete, in Latin, means “Rejoice.” Gaudete Sunday originated during Medieval times, but is still celebrated in traditions today by lighting a pink candle, instead of the purple or blue ones that mark the other three weeks of Advent.

Later, I discovered that some traditions will celebrate Gaudete Sunday by laying a pink rose on the Advent wreath or altar. In some ways, this is like making a cheer at half-time, when the game seems hopeless, but cheering anyway, knowing that the players are going to have a rough time in the minutes to come, but holding out hope, when things seem hopeless. The Third Week of Advent is just past the half-way point. And that is the way it is in the midst of our deepest struggles, our pain. We enter into difficult times, when hope is out of sight, but we know, we trust, that God will bring us through.

It’s a lot easier to begin or finish a struggle, but to stick with it, to attend to it in the middle, at the deepest point, is the worst. We can feel so alone, lost, overwhelmed. It’s a lot easier to celebrate a God who is with us when we are finished with a struggle—when we feel victorious. It’s much more difficult to “rejoice” when all seems lost, and things are not resolved—when God has not swooped in to save the day in the way we think.

So we put out the pink rose in the Third Week of Advent, on this Gaudete Sunday, to remember, even in the midst of darkness, even in the deepest place of despair, that we can rejoice in the hope that God is with us and will continue to be with us, and that God is making all things new. Christ will return, just as Christ came to Bethlehem so long ago—Christ will return and will make all things right.

Here are the first words of the Introit for Gaudete Sunday:

Gaudete in Domino semper: iterum dico, gaudete. Modestia vestra nota sit omnibus hominibus: Dominus enim prope est. Nihil solliciti sitis: sed in omni oratione et obsecratione cum gratiarum actione petitiones vestræ innotescant apud Deum. Benedixisti Domine terram tuam: avertisti captivitatem Jacob.

Translated, these words are: "Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, rejoice. Let your forbearance be known to all, for the Lord is near at hand; have no anxiety about anything, but in all things, by prayer and supplication, with thanksgiving, let your requests be known to God. Lord, you have blessed your land; you have turned away the captivity of Jacob." (Phil. 4:4-6; Ps. 85)

Advent means “arrival,” “coming,” or “appearing.” During Advent, we not only remember Christ coming to earth, but we also look forward in anticipation when Christ will return, to make all things right. Injustice, poverty, suffering, disease, hunger, death, war, pain—Christ will return; Christ will redeem.

We practice Advent each year to enter in and remember the story of Christ’s first coming. We remember the anticipation that the people of the Bible felt, waiting for their Messiah for over 2,000 years. In Scripture, Jesus was promised, but they waited, in darkness, but also in hope that the Light of the World would come.

Now, I want to emphasize here that laying a pink rose on an altar does not bypass pain or suffering or darkness, and it does not ask us to take a break from the darkness; instead, the rose calls us to enter even more deeply into our journey with Christ. We bravely put out the pink rose even though we are still sitting in sheer darkness. We do this as a defiant gesture toward hope—facing the darkness and despair bravely and stubbornly—holding onto the hope of Christ. This is why we place a pink rose on the Third Week of Advent—this Gaudete Sunday.

Gaudete Sunday invites us, in the midst of our deepest struggles, our darkest hours to put out a pink rose, to light the pink candle, to recognize the glimmer of hope, even in the midst of our suffering, pain, loss. We can put out the pink rose in faith, in hope, knowing that all is not right yet, but that out of the stump, something new is growing (Isa. 11:1) A flower will blossom abundantly, and we will rejoice with joy and singing, seeing the fully glory of God. (Isa. 35:1-2)

"Gaudete in Domino semper" or "Rejoice in the Lord always." These are the opening words in the liturgy for the Antiphon on Gaudete Sunday.

Today, we celebrated my daughter’s sixteenth birthday, giving her sixteen pink roses. I shared with her the significance of her story, of our story—how I rejoice for the symbol of hope her name brings to us—Promise Rose. The Rose of Sharon is coming to make all things right. (Song 2:1; Rev 21:5)

Promise-Rose brought her roses to church this Sunday morning and shared the story with our pastor, and they lovingly placed a pink rose on the altar, and her other roses in the church to celebrate God’s faithfulness. Our pastor held up the pink rose, daring to hope, declaring joy in the midst of darkness.

Today I encourage you to bravely set out your rose. It may not be a pink rose or pink candle, but maybe you might have some way of remembering the rose that is flowering up—that Christ has come and will redeem all things. Maybe draw a rose and place it on your refrigerator, or put a rose on your home page or screen. In your own way, I encourage you to hold up your rose.

Our path after Promise-Rose’s birth was not easy. Two weeks after she was born, my husband had to move out to the West Coast to work, while I remained on the East Coast with a newborn and a two-year old, in a strange new place, where I knew hardly anyone. Later, we would eventually make a move across country. And it was tough. So, I will not sit here and say that because I put a rose out, everything turns out great. But I will say that I have been learning to lean into joy, to rejoice in the midst of the darkest trials, to bravely hold up the pink rose, even when I am not sure if God is there, or if God is present.

Today, I challenge you to hold up your rose. What are the ways that you struggle to see joy in your current season? Maybe you are tired and weary. Maybe you don’t see how God could ever make things right. Sadness and despair overwhelm you. You feel lost. All you can see is darkness. You don’t feel like putting out a silly pink rose. I totally get it.

But put the rose out anyway (or whatever symbol of rose you can muster!)!

Putting out that pink rose is a step of faith,  knowing that the rose calls us to joy even now—not a paste-on-your-face fake kind of joy, or pretending that everything is alright, but rather, a defiant, stubborn joy that calls out “Rejoice!”

Our pink rose foreshadows the joy, maybe only giving us a glimpse or glimmer as what is to come when the true Rose comes—when the true Rose of Sharon is in full bloom, making all things new.

So go ahead, lay out your pink rose, light the pink candle, put on the pink scarf, set aside the pink ornament on your tree, or whatever might symbolize to you joy in the midst of this Advent season.

This weekend, my daughter sang this song at a choir concert on her sixteenth birthday. These words invite us to put out, to lift up, to anticipate, to celebrate the Rose:

Lo, how a Rose e'er blooming

From tender stem hath sprung!

Of Jesse's lineage coming

As men of old have sung.

It came, a flower bright,

Amid the cold of winter

When half-gone was the night.

Isaiah 'twas foretold it,

The Rose I have in mind:

With Mary we behold it,

The virgin mother kind.

To show God's love aright

She bore to men a Savior

When half-gone was the night.

This Flower, whose fragrance tender

With sweetness fills the air,

Dispels with glorious splendor

The darkness everywhere.

True man, yet very God,

From sin and death He saves us

And lightens every load

Source: German, 15th century, Theodore Baker, translator

Link to Music : Lo How a Rose E’er Blooming - The Tabernacle Choir