Once upon a time there was an ornamental piece of ironwork in a shop that captivated my eye and, I promise, begged me to purchase for display in my own home. There’s no perceivable purpose to it yet its appealing rosebud scrollwork is so pleasant to my eye it needs no additional purpose other than sheer delight. When it broke in half several years ago (oops) it’s newly developed twin was given to a dear friend who had similar decorative tastes.

Sometimes it’s hanging on the living room wall in a grouping. Sometimes it’s propped up in a small space near the stairway. Other times it doesn’t seem to fit in at all so out to the garage it goes. Then at some later point while I’m looking for something useful like a bit of hardware or hammer it catches my eye and is brought back into the fold.

In an age where we’re encouraged to find our passion and to live purpose-driven lives there’s an unfortunate assumption that “purpose” determines worth. Wouldn’t it be just grand to know that you were loved and valued for exactly who you are? Yeah, exactly. Even with some rust that developed from that extended time as a garden ornament. And then not being quite whole ever again after the break you suffered (knowing it just as well could have meant the end). Having a cob-webby film of dust from that stint of banishment—out of sight and unwanted in cold storage.

You are loved though. The craftsman that designed the scrolling Rose vine will always have a heart for his creation whether rusted or broken. You are his creation and loved to the end and beyond. Believe it. If you close your eyes you can still detect the fragrance of knowing, without a doubt, that you, Dear Rosebud, are loved.