Remembering Rose

Rose der Nederlanden was so much more than a work colleague. She was a one-woman task force, a bulwark of Christian Courier for nearly 20 years. She lived the “ministry” part of our tagline, “redemptive journalism ministry.” And she was my friend. 

I’m not ready to put all these verbs in the past tense. But I will do my best to take Rose’s advice and avoid making this about me. She used to scoff a little at articles in CC that focused too much on the writer, pointing out sentences with two or three personal pronouns. Yes, each person’s story is important, but too much navel-gazing drove her crazy. Zoom out a little. Look beyond yourself.

Her life followed those guidelines for writers. You couldn’t visit Rose and finish a plate of food – she’d perpetually refill it, like a magical porridge pot, whether you were hungry or not. You couldn’t call Rose to change the mailing address for your subscription without answering a few questions about the move and how were the kids. Rose was a tireless delegate between CC’s staff and its readers – explaining one group to the other even if, in the end, there’s no question that she stood as an attorney for the defense.

Solidarity
Rose’s first husband Harry died in September 2008. They had worked on Christian Courier together – Harry as Editor and Rose on layout and subscriptions. She could have so easily quit, once he was gone. But instead she welcomed me, brand new editor, a few months later. And she encouraged me, even when I started changing the way Harry had done things, and she didn’t begrudge any compliments when people started calling to say “I like the new CC.” And when they called to say “I don’t like the new CC,” she took her time in telling me.

Rose had a multi-purpose phrase, her own tagline. It could wrap up any conversation. “We’ll see once,” she’d say – and it could mean all kinds of things. When we couldn’t decide if the front-page layout looked good, “we’ll see once” meant “we can do better” – and she’d redo the page. When an irate reader had given her an earful, “we’ll see once” meant “let’s not lose sleep over this.” For the outcome of each subscription drive, each labour-intensive government Aid to Publishers grant, “we’ll see once” meant wait and see, step back a little; the outcome might be out of our hands.

‘We’ll see once’
Rose and I worked on 176 issues of Christian Courier together. Before every single one went to print, we’d chat about colours, edits and photo choices, but only marginally. Those discussions were frequently sidelined with “How are you?” And not only once, as an opener – Rose asked that question a lot, especially if I brushed it off the first time. The rest of life outside work was not marginalia for Rose: she wanted to know. So we shared the hard news in our personal lives, along with the good and joyful news.

When I think of that phrase now – “we’ll see once” – I hear so much beautiful hope. Grit and strength. Rose planted her feet in each moment, whatever it held, and trusted in God for everything else. For whatever happened next.

The morning after Rose died, I heard a brass band play “When the Saints Go Marching In.” Lively and upbeat: impossible not to tap your feet or hum along. And now I’m making it about me again – getting choked up during a song. Rose, please forgive a little navel-gazing. I miss you, and I can’t express that grief without a few personal pronouns. I thought of you, Rose, during that joyful, prophetic hymn, imagined you being welcomed to heaven with a new crop of saints. Where every “we’ll see” has been answered. 

Those of us on earth see in a mirror dimly what Rose now, once and for all, sees face to face.