C’est depuis cette terre normande de Saint-Bômer, ou elle avait été baptisée le Aout 2001, que Rose nous a brutalement quittés pour rejoindre le Père, ce Vendredi Saint 18 Avril.

A sa naissance à Cambridge (Masssachusetts) le 12 Avril 2001, nous avions hésité sur le choix de son prénom. Nous avions finalement retenu “Rose”,  mais nous avions tenu à ce que sa sainte patronne fût Sainte Thérèse de Lisieux, et non Sainte Rose de Lima, que nous trouvions bien austère. Nous avions choisi ce prénom en référence à cette “pluie de roses” que Sainte Thérèse avait promis de faire pleuvoir sur la terre quand elle serait au ciel. Et, à sa naissance, cette petite fille tant attendue était vraiment pour nous l’une de ces roses tombées du ciel.

Sa joie de vivre, son sourire, ses grands yeux bleus nous ont charmés pendant deux ans; ils ont apporté du bonheur en abondance à ses parents, à ses freres et soeur, et à ses nombreux amis.

Nous ne comprenons pas pourquoi elle est partie si tôt, et nous sommes dans la détresse de ne plus entendre sa voix et de ne plus pouvoir la prendre dans nos bras. Mais nous sentons aussi, mystérieusement, que Rose a accompli sa mission d’amour sur la terre.

Rose continue désormais cette mission auprès de Saint Thérèse. Elle aussi va faire tomber sur nous tous une pluie de grâces d’amour, qui nous apparaîtra plus clairement à mesure que notre pluie de larmes se tarira, et qui nous aidera ainsi à poursuivre notre mission de bâtir le Royaume de Dieu ici, dans notre famille, dans nos communautes, et dans nos pays.

On Good Friday April 18. during our Easter vacations, Rose escaped our attention for a few minutes, went to the shallow pond near our house, fell into it and drowned. It happened in our family house in the countryside of Saint-Bomer in Normandy, where she had been baptized on July 21. 2001. She was buried on Easter Monday, in the family grave in Saint Bomer.

When she was born in Cambridge, MA on April 21. 2001, we had a hard time choosing her first name. We finally made up our mind for "Rose", but we also decided that Saint Theresa of Lisieux would be her patron saint, instead of Saint Rose of Lima, who seemed a little too austere to us. Rose's name was chosen in reference to this "rain of roses" which Saint Theresa had promised she would "spend her Heaven" sending on earth. And indeed, on the day of her birth, this little french-american girl awaited since many years was definitely for us one of those roses fallen from heaven.

Her joy, her smile, her big blue eyes charmed us for two years and four days. They brought happiness in abundance to her parents, her brothers and sister, and her many friends on both sides of the Atlantic.

We do not understand why she left us so early, and we are in deep sorrow not to hear her voice, teach her, play with her or hug her in our arms any more. But we also feel, mysteriously, that Rose has accomplished her mission of love on earth.

From now on, Rose continues her mission at the sides of Saint Theresa. She will also send upon us a rain of loving grace that will become more and more apparent as the rain of tears we are now shedding finally dry up. She will help us continue our mission of building the Kingdom of God here, in our family, our communities, and our countries.

Rose

J’aurais pu être une étoile, une petite étoile accrochée au firmament, plus pure et plus brillante que les autres étoiles.

J’aurais pu éclairer votre chemin et guider vos pas au plus profond de la nuit.

Mais peut-être ne m’auriez-vous pas reconnue au milieu de toutes ces étoiles.

J’aurais pu être une petite goutte de pluie semblable aux milliards de gouttes de pluie qui tombent chaque jour sur terre.

J’auris pu étancher votre soif et vous apporter la vie.

Mais peut-être ne m’auriez vous pas reconnue au milieu de toutes les gouttes de pluie.

J’ai choisi d’être une Rose, une petite Rose qui voulait embellir votre vie, un cadeau de Dieu, une parcelle d’amour et d’espérance.

Les pétales de ma vie se sont ouverts pour vous, et le vent du printemps les a doucement emportés.

Je savais bien, en venant  à vous qu’une petite Rose est éphémère,

Mais surtout, surtout, ne croyez pas que je ne suis plus la.

Chaque printemps, des milliers de roses refleurissent, alors regardez bien : au milieu d’elles il y aura toujours votre petite Rose.

Chers amis,

Merci d'être venus ce matin pour prier avec nous et confier au Seigneur notre famille, ainsi que toutes les familles endeuillées de par le monde.

En ce Vendredi Saint 18 Avril, notre petite Rose s'est enfuie pour rejoindre le Père. Le vide laissé par son départ, elle qui était depuis sa naissance au centre de notre famille, nous a plongé dans la douleur. Nous l'avions tant désirée, tant attendue, tant regardée, tant aimée. Combien de fois Nathalie et moi nous étions émerveillés de ce grand bonheur d'avoir quatre enfants, tout attendris devant notre petite Rose, avec ses grands yeux bleus, sa joie de vivre, sa vivacité.

Dès que nous avons su qu'elle était morte, nous nous sommes longtemps regardés, et nous avons immédiatement pensé à tous ceux qui nous accompagnaient sur ce chemin de souffrance, aux parents de Nathalie eux-memes, Sophie, aux parents d'enfants et de soldats tués en Irak, aux parents d'enfants qui meurent de la malaria tous les jours en Afrique. Nous nous sommes dit que, mystérieusement, nous les avions rejoints sur ce chemin de pauvreté. Nous étions démunis, mais nous n'étions pas seuls.

Mais à cette internationale de la souffrance s'est ajoutée une internationale de l'amour. Nous avons reçu des centaines de témoignages d'affection, d'attention et de délicatesse de la part de notre famille et de nombreux amis partout dans le monde, comme une pluie de pétales de rose.

Le lendemain de l'accident, notre amie Jonell prenait l'avion depuis Boston et nous rejoignait en Normandie. Le lundi de Pâques, jour de l'enterrement de Rose, une messe à son intention était célébrée au Saint-Sépulcre à Jérusalem. Une autre est célébrée aujourd'hui même dans notre paroisse Our Lady of Mercy de Belmont aux Etats-Unis par le père McGowan organisée par nos amis d'Amérique, en mémoire de celle qu'ils appelaient "blue eyes", "sweet angel" ou "froggy". Et nous avons reçu des lettres merveilleuses, comme la prière du grand’père d’Ava, la petite fille chez qui Rose se rendait presque tous les jours, et que Jane nous lira pour nous faire rentrer dans cette célébration.

Ainsi, pour paraphraser Soeur Myriam, dans les questions parfois très douloureuses que nous posent la vie, ce n'est pas la réponse du Seigneur, c'est le Seigneur lui-même, infiniment là, qui nous aide à répondre. La mort de notre petite Rose nous provoque à plus d’humanité, car nous avons désormais grâce à elle un pied dans l’éternité. L’amour de notre Rose est un appel à nous émerveiller de la vie, un appel à nous donner encore plus. Les mots de Sainte Thérèse, que nous avions choisie comme sa sainte patronne et qui est maintenant à ses côtés, illustrent ce à quoi nous nous sentons appelés : « Je compris que l'Amour seul faisait agir les membres de l'Eglise, que l'Amour renfermait toutes les vocations, que l'Amour était tout, qu'il embrassait tous les temps et tous les lieux… en un mot qu'il est éternel. ».

De quoi donc aurions-nous peur ? La mort de Rose est un appel à nous mettre en marche. Notre François, qui pleure la mort de sa petite sœur, et qui redouble cependant de courage pour avoir de bonnes notes à l’école, nous montre le chemin. Il n’est pas question d’oublier, mais il faut chercher en avant.

Dear friends,

We thank you for being with us this morning to pray and ask the Lord to take care of our family as well as all mourning families in the world.

On Good Friday April 18., our little Rose fled to meet her Father. She had been since she was born the very center of our family, and her sudden absence has left us in deep sorrow. We had so much desired her, expected her, watched her and loved her. How many times Nathalie and I had been amazed by this heavenly bliss of having four children, and we were deeply moved by our little Rose, with her big blue eyes, her joy in life, her liveliness.

As soon as we knew she was dead, we looked at each other in the eyes for a long time, and we immediately thought about all those who were walking with us on this road of suffering. We thought about Nathalie’s parents with Sophie, about the parents of children and soldiers killed in Iraq, about the children who die of malaria every day in Africa. We realized that , mysteriously, we had met them all in their poverty. We were deprived, yet we were not alone. 

But to this international society of suffering was added an international society of love. We received hundreds of messages of compassion, attention and thoughtfulness from all over the world, like a rain of rose petals.

The day following Rose’s death, our friend Jonell and her daughter Emma flew from Boston to our little village in Normandy. On Easter Monday, the day of Rose’s burial, a mass was celebrated in her memory at the Holy Sepulcher in Jerusalem. Another will be celebrated this day in Belmont by father McGowan. It will be organized by our American friends, in memory of the one they used to call “blue eyes”, “sweet angel” or “froggy”. We also received marvelous letters, like the prayer of Ava’s grandfather, which Jane will read to help us enter the celebration. Ava was the little girl that Rose used to visit almost every day.

And so, to paraphrase sister Myriam, in the sometimes very painful questions that life puts to us, it is not the Lord’s answer, but the Lord himself, infinitely present, who helps us answer. The death of our little Rose incites us to more humanity, because we now have with her one foot in eternity. The love of our little Rose is a calling to be struck with amazement by life, a calling to give ourselves even more. The words of Saint Theresa, whom we had chosen as Rose’s patron saint and who is now standing beside her, illustrate what we believe is our calling: “ I understood that only Love was driving the members of the Church into action, that Love included all callings, that Love was all, that it contained all times and all places…in one word, that it is eternal.”

Our Lord, our heavenly Father

Have mercy upon me and comfort me with the compassion of Christ.

Let the wounds he suffered on the Cross bring peace to my soul.

You know my broken heart.

Bind it up with your great love.

Touch me with your hand, and tell me that my little one is in your arms.

Give me strength to come through this experience of loss,

And may my life be used by you

To make known your great love to others with broken hearts.

Hear me in heaven, and when you hear,

Forgive me, in Jesus' name.

Amen.

It is both difficult and yet deeply important to talk about Rose, for the simple reason that she was precious and she touched us.  Even as it is painful to reflect upon such a loss, it is also enriching to explore and contemplate its greater significance to our human experience.  I believe that doing so is part of remembering Rose.

Rose was first and foremost your own little girl, and your loss is unspeakable.  Marc and I can only acknowledge this and offer up our compassion.  But I feel also a powerful recognition now of how deeply she touched us.  How beautiful and how precious was the time when she was with us.  Not a day goes by that I don’t think of Rose.  But as these days of absence multiply, they are counter-balanced by a recognition that for the brief time she was here, she brought us beauty and sweetness.  I feel compelled to write these thoughts in order to be reminded more of the sweetness of her presence than of the sadness of her passing.

I remember the first day Rose came over.  This was when Ava had very few notions of language, and didn’t speak.  After Rose had settled in under Hélène’s care, I went back into my office to work.  And suddenly I heard a new sound in our apartment.  I had been accustomed to such quiet.  Now, a series of rapid, unintelligible syllables in several voices was rattling off behind my door.  I came out to see that Ava and Rose had come into the room, totally absorbed in their animated ‘conversation’.  Ava must be relieved, I remember thinking, to finally have someone she can relate to in her own language.  I was so happy for both of them.  They now each had a friend.

I remember, Nathalie, that in the beginning you and I weren’t sure of our experiment.  We proceeded tentatively, not wanting to carve this arrangement in stone in case they didn’t get along.  In the first days, Rose needed a little reassurance when she came over, as did Ava when I would drop her off at your house.  But soon we found that it was so delightfully easy.  Their friendship acquired its own rhythm in the four days a week that they spent together.  Ava and Rose became a pair.  Often they would look at books together.  Often they would play together.  Often, as well, they would each play independently, but in the presence of the other.  I even recall how one would watch while the other was being changed, as though standing guard until their interrupted playtime could resume.  Rose was younger than Ava by several months, but she nevertheless was a strong influence.  When Rose began speaking, Ava

adopted some of her phrases and her mannerisms.  I remember being struck when I first heard them by how deeply Rose impressed Ava.  “Quoi ça?” is a phrase that Ava still pronounces in uncanny imitation, capturing Rose’s lilting inflection at the end.  I cannot help but reflect that it was Rose who gave Ava this first, rudimentary vocabulary; the means by which to indicate her curiosity about the things around her.

Sometimes, of course, they would have a falling out, usually over a teddy bear (which Ava only began to appreciate when Rose would pick it up) or over Ava’s portable telephone.  When that happened, I sometimes took a break from my work to have storytime.  Sitting on the sofa with Rose on my left, and Ava on my right, we would read books together like Dr. Seuss’s ‘Oh, The Thinks You Can Think’ or Catherine Oxenbury’s ‘I See’ and ‘I Can’.  I remember being impressed by how much time Rose would spend looking at the pages, or even just holding the book.  Moreso than Ava, she seemed to enjoy settling down with books.  Some children give you a sense very early on of how happy and receptive they are about reading, and Rose was one of those children.

It was easy to see that Ava and Rose were learning more and more from each other each day.  Inevitably, part of this learning process was also about getting along together, even when one child might be bigger or more forceful than the other.  With what seems like cruel timing in retrospect, Ava was a bit of a bully with Rose in their last two playtimes together.  After sharp reprimands, Ava was sent to her room.  These episodes made a lasting impression.  When I first told Ava about Rose’s death, it was difficult for her to understand what that meant.  In fact, I thought her reaction was downright shocking.  She kept asking, “taper Rose?  taper Rose?”  Surely she wasn’t still thinking about bullying Rose?  But it is now clear to me that her words didn’t quite match her meaning.  Since then, from time to time, she will suddenly repeat the question in a tentative, troubled way, as if there is something she still needs to know.  I realised that she must be wondering where Rose is, and whether the reason she cannot see her now is because she was rough on her friend in those last days.  I know that Ava thinks about Rose, and that she truly misses her playmate.

It is interesting, isn’t it, how children can go right to the heart of things that matter?  Ava does not understand death, and she doesn’t have the words to express what she may be feeling about separation.  All that she can ask, in her blunt and awkward way, is the why.  And I find myself asking the same question.  Why did God choose to take Rose at this time?  And my question, of course, is answered only by its own echo.  This knowledge is not for us to have.  But if there is any certainty to be found in this experience for me, it is that its meaning and purpose is necessarily tied to love.  Love is what binds us together as human beings.  Love, throughout time, is what gives meaning to our existence.  And love is about sharing and giving.  I really do feel that for me, part of remembering Rose will be to remind myself of this.  Giving of ourselves with honesty, truly caring about our fellow human beings, especially in the smallest everyday gestures, is the essence of community.  And thinking beyond our own individual needs and preoccupations enriches us our lives by connecting us to a larger, shared purpose.  Rose had a special place in our family.  We loved her.  Our memory of Rose is a source of love.

When I look at the few pictures that we have of Rose, I regret so much the images that we didn’t capture on film.  Our pictures capture mostly her timidity and reserve when she was perhaps unsure about her surroundings.  But often this melted away very quickly.  She would be like that when she arrived in the morning, all bundled up in her hat and bulky winter jacket, and clinging to her little bunny.  But then Ava would kiss her Good Morning, we’d take off her hat and coat, her eyes would sparkle and she’d have this way of showing her excitement by giggling and stomping her feet at the same time.  Oh, why didn’t I think to photograph that incredible energy she’d have by the end of the morning, chasing Ava down our endless hallway at full speed and squealing all the way?  Sheer joy.  She took my breath away.

Rose.  I can still hear her running down the hallway.  I can still hear her squeals of delight and laughter.  I can still see her stomping her feet up and down at the mere fact of being happy.  I can still hear her voice as she would call out to Ava. This was Rose, sweet and beautiful.  Ava’s first friend.  Her time with us was precious indeed.  And we will always, always remember her.

©2002 Roulleaux Dugage Family. All Rights Reserved

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