Well, I suppose that I am Marveling this morning, but with a side of Moan.

Yesterday morn, instead of attending our beautiful and inclusive Asbury Church here in Savannah, Robert and I played hooky. Since it was an unusually cool reprieve from our stiflingly serious summer heat, I suggested we drive over to Savannah‘s iconic Bonaventure Cemetery and do what we have not been doing much this summer … walk outside.

What a beautiful, old cemetery/park, along a bluff of the tranquil Wilmington River.

We took our time, walking quietly, almost meditatively, under the ancient live oaks and magnolias. A morning breeze (amazingly refreshing for early August!) invited the Spanish Moss to a ceremonial Dance of the Dead above our heads.

About an hour into this Sauntering Sunday Service, I somewhat wearily gazed through the overgrown and dark green “we-bloomed-months-ago” azalea bushes.

And saw it.

“Let’s walk over there, Robert.”

A small mausoleum, circa 1927, darkened and a bit crumbling with age and wear, the small double doors having patinated over the decades into a glorious, deep metallic green.

The Schroder family whispered us closer, even offering me a little sitting of rest (which I desperately needed).

‘Neal, look behind you,” HR quietly instructed.

Someone (who?) had placed a single, long-stemmed, radiantly red rose at the foot of the doors, below the two “S’s.”

(My last name is Saye, Robert’s is Smith, I for some reason thought.)

“Pick it up.”

I obeyed, trying to avoid the thorns.

I have been dealing with some frustrating physical issues (thorns!) lately—causing me to be a bit out of sorts with the world and with life.

73 years come with challenges.

Then again …

And I still crave the rose.