*This story is based on a true story which a friend told me while we were in South Africa. My friend was in a bar and saw the reality of a modern day Hosea in the form of a little, old, waddling man. This is the story of the Love-Drunk Rose.
The bars were packed with tainted men and gals, flashing about the swarmed mess to provide lustful entertainment to every next best customer. Though the stars shone brightly outside, as the beach front crashed on the sand, society deemed the hot, crowded mass of drunkenness more attractive. Too caught up in the whirlwind of the commotion and fuzzy emotions rolling through head and stomach, most were distracted from the ironic sight to see.
The little, old man in the corner proved to be the Hosea of his day, persistently pursuing the pure hearts of the women wanting approval and love. Side to side, through the crowd, this little, old man waddled. From one to another, he’d glance, silently, praying a prayer of safety, protection, and guidance over these tiny hearts he wanted to embrace, in order to save them for their own good. Up and down the liquor-filled alleys, he went, passing out roses of intricate beauty to the women he considered to resemble his favorite flower. Each time he gave one away, his smile grew a little brighter, a little bigger. How beautifully ironic it was, to see this little, old man waddle through the masses to point out the beauty in each individual woman. He had no music, no suit, no fancy car. His voice was neither commanding nor loud, for one could not even hear the light sound of his late-night slippers sliding on the filthy floor.
Through the glittering sequens, the bass blasting speakers, the color-changing disco lights, and the constant clinking of beer-stained glasses, I could see and hear the irony of this plain, but beautiful, little, old man, as he brought pleasant chivalry back into the room. With the wisdom evidenced through only a few white hairs, the little, old man, now smiling brightly as ever, waddled out the door, unnoticed, both now in his entrance and exit. …Out from the door of the bathroom clicked two black heels carrying red fish net tights, a black mini skirt, and a red top which scarcely covered a woman who held a bucket. Stumbling to the door, the woman aimed to gather her whereabouts while attempting to remember the night’s recent events.
The morning after, she expected every kind of pain to haunt her, just as it had the morning before. Some of the pain seemed to disappear and refill with a tingling sensation when she glanced over the side of the bed and saw a beautiful irony. In a small, blue bucket, stood a beautiful, intricate rose with a small note attached, reading the handwritten words, “You are Loved.”