The Ultimate Test of Love...
John Blanchard stood up
from the bench straightened his Army uniform, and studied the crowd of people
making their way through Grand Central Station. He looked for the girl whose
heart he knew, but whose face he didn't, the girl with the rose. His interest
in her had begun thirteen months before in a Florida library. Taking a book off
the shelf he found himself intrigued, not with the words of the book, but with
the notes penciled in the margin. The soft handwriting reflected a thoughtful
soul and insightful mind. In the front
of the book, he discovered the previous owner's name, Miss Hollis Maynell.
With time and effort he
located her address. She lived in New
York City. He wrote her a etter introducing himself and inviting her to
correspond. The next day he was shipped overseas for service in World War
II. During the next year and one month
the two grew to know each other through the mail. Each letter was a seed
falling on a fertile heart. A romance
was budding. Blanchard requested a photograph, but she refused. She felt that
if he really cared, it wouldn't matter what she looked like. When the day finally came for him to return
from Europe, they scheduled their first meeting - 7:00 PM at the Grand Central
Station in New York.
"You'll recognize
me," she wrote, "by the red rose I'll be wearing on my
lapel." So at 7:00 he was in the
station looking for a girl whose heart he loved, but whose face he'd never
seen.
I'll let Mr. Blanchard tell
you what happened:
A young woman was coming
toward me, her figure long and slim. Her blonde hair lay back in curls from her
delicate ears; her eyes were blue as flowers. Her lips and chin had a gentle firmness,
and in her pale green suit she was like springtime come alive. I started toward her, entirely forgetting to notice
that she was not wearing a rose. As I
moved, a small, provocative smile curved her lips. "Going my way, sailor?" she
murmured. Almost uncontrollably, I made one step closer to her, and then I saw
Hollis Maynell. She was tanding almost directly behind the girl. A woman well past 40, she had graying hair
tucked under a worn hat. She was more than plump, her thick-ankled feet thrust
into low-heeled shoes. The girl in the
green suit was walking quickly away. I
felt as though I was split in two, so keen was my desire to follow her, and yet
so deep was my longing for the woman whose spirit had truly companioned me and
upheld my own. And there she stood. Her pale, plump face was gentle and sensible;
her gray eyes had a warm and kindly twinkle. I did not hesitate. My fingers ripped
the small worn blue leather copy of the book that was to identify me to
her. This would not be love, but it
would be something precious, something perhaps even better than love, a
friendship for which I had been and must ever be grateful. I squared my
shoulders and saluted and held out the book to the woman, even though while I
spoke I felt choked by the bitterness of my disappointment. "I'm
Lieutenant John Blanchard, and you must be Miss Maynell . I am so glad you
could meet me; may I take you to dinner?"
The woman's face broadened
into a tolerant smile. "I don't know what this is about, son," she
answered, "but the young lady in the green suit that just went by, she
begged me to wear this rose on my coat. And she said if you were to ask me out to
dinner, I should tell you that she is waiting for you in the big restaurant
across the street. She said it was some
kind of test!" It's
not difficult to understand and admire Miss Maynell's wisdom. The true nature of a heart is seen in its
response to the unattractive.
"Tell me whom you
love," Houssaye wrote, "And I
will tell you who you are."
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