Rose bushes that are scraggly, need pruning, are struggling to stay alive and are infrequently watered make me sad.

There’s a stretch on my drive home that has a ton of them planted in the tiniest openings in the sidewalk. It’s like someone ran out of concrete every few feet and wanted to make sense out of their mistake.

“Hey, Hank — see those 10″ x 10″ patches? Let’s plant something there.”

They look tired, but they persist. They don’t thrive, they simply push on. They pull what they can from the dewy mornings, damp and foggy evenings, and hope on a daily basis that there’ll be more tomorrow. That they might be pruned a little. That they’ll get a chance to grow again.

That tomorrow doesn’t come, but they hope that it might. Someday.

The sun beats down and its petals are fried and crispy. Signs of life are but mere remnants.

They’re kind of like us, in a way. We hold out hope that better is just around the corner.

We remember better days and want to get back there. We know what we’re made of, and we know we have beauty to share — if only we could get the chance.

A break.

An opportunity.

We’d like for someone to come along an unlock our splendor. We see them pass by each day, but nobody is the one.

But we’ll wait. For as long as it takes. We don’t give up easily when there’s so much life in each of us.

Yes, we will wait. Patiently.

Tonight I am thankful for knowing that no matter how rough the going might get, holding onto the beauty that’s inside each of us is one of the most important things we can do — for ourselves, and for a world that deserves to see it.