The Rose That Does Not Wither.

The Rose That Does Not Wither

by Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

I once prayed in a whisper so soft it could’ve slipped through cracks in the night. “Creator, don’t let me leave this earth until I truly know You.” I don’t even think I expected an answer at least, not one that would shake me this deep. It wasn’t a shout or a chant or anything fancy. Just me, leaning into the dark, hoping Someone was listening. And then… something stirred. Not outside of me, not in the room, but in the marrow. A hum. A pulse. Something like hope coming back to life.

I felt a knowing settle over me. Not words, not exactly. But it said, “The one who truly knows Me never dies.”

I laughed at first. Not because I didn’t believe it, but because it sounded impossible. Never die? Me? All my life I’d thought about death like it was a wall waiting for me at the end of every path. But that night, I felt it differently. Death wasn’t a wall. It was a doorway. A doorway into arms I had been looking for all along.

Life’s never made that easy, though. Some days, I feel like I’m dragging my ribs through sand. Words have cut me deeper than I ever expected. I’ve sat in quiet rooms wondering if my prayers bounced off the ceiling and disappeared. But even in that quiet, even in that hurt, that whisper comes back. “You know Me. You are held. You will not be undone.”

I remember once someone asked me something that wouldn’t let go: “All roses fall prey to the winter. Since the rose is not eternal, why be captured by its scent?” And I had no answer at first. Of course they’re right the roses shrivel, petals brown, stems bend, bloom fades. Beauty doesn’t last. But maybe that’s exactly why we lean in close, right? Why we breathe in while we can. Maybe the scent is the point. A little echo of the eternal tucked into something fleeting.

I’ve turned that question into a story I tell myself like a talisman. It’s not from anywhere else it’s mine. Long ago, there was a village with one rose bush, the kind that makes you stop walking just to breathe. Its fragrance softened hard hearts. Even the children who used to fight found themselves chasing each other laughing. But when autumn came, the petals fell, and the people mourned. Then winter came, the bush froze, and finally, it seemed gone. An old woman stood in the square and said, “You foolish ones. You thought the rose was yours. Its scent was never meant for your noses alone it’s a reminder from the One who lent it. Don’t just inhale it carry it in your soul.” And they say, from that day, whenever the wind blew through the village, people swore they still smelled roses. Even when there was nothing left.

That’s how I feel about life, about knowing the Creator. Seasons come. Sometimes you bloom. Sometimes you freeze. Sometimes you feel like nothing’s left, and then you realize the scent is still there. It was never gone.

I’ve dreamed things my body hasn’t done yet. I’ve circled the Kaaba in my sleep, spinning with a joy that made my chest ache. I’ve climbed Sinai barefoot in a dream, stones burning, wind carrying whispers older than language. And when I wake, I know: it wasn’t imagination. It was my soul learning something my body hasn’t yet caught up to. Sometimes the spirit scouts ahead. Sometimes it teaches the heart lessons you can’t get in the day.

Life has battered me, no doubt. People, places, grief, loss they’ve all tried to flatten me. I’ve stared at ceilings wishing for answers I couldn’t hear. But mercy shows up in the strangest places. Compassion arrives like a knock at the door when I’m about to give up. Joy sneaks in like a thief. And I hold on. Because that whisper from long ago? It’s real. “The one who truly knows Me never dies.”

Sometimes life feels like a cracked cup. You spill, you leak, you fall apart. One day, the cup breaks. But the water inside? It doesn’t vanish. It seeps into the ground, rises into clouds, falls as rain. That’s how I see myself now. I’m not the cup. I’m the water. I’m the one that keeps moving, keeps being, keeps returning.

And when I can’t find words, the poems find me. They spill, awkward, messy, unpolished. Like this one:

I once walked through a garden where roses bowed their heads,

not in defeat, but in secret prayer.

Winter came with teeth of frost,

yet the fragrance lingered, stubborn and soft,

teaching me that eternity hides in the fading,

and the withered is never without its song.

Maybe that’s why I keep leaning into roses, keep breathing them in. Not because the bloom lasts, but because its scent whispers the truth. It’s the same reason I still whisper prayers into the night, hoping they don’t vanish. They’re caught. Every one of them. By the same hands that built the stars, the same hands that promise: If you know Me, you never die.

So yes, all roses fall prey to the winter. Petals drop. The bush wilts. But I’ll still let myself be captured by the scent. Because in that fleeting sweetness, I catch a glimpse of eternity, and it’s enough to carry me past fear, past grief, past the things I can’t understand yet. Enough to remind me that the One I seek is never truly gone, and that the arms waiting for me are always open.