You made me, Gypsy Rose

To get to my friend Diana’s house, I travel Route 113. It kind of winds around and when I’m not preoccupied with the radio or whatever, I look at the scenes on either side of the road.

There is a restaurant on the right side, just as you descend a hill, called the Gypsy Rose. It has a sign outside – you know the kind that you can place letters on and change them at will? The same signs that churches use to display stupid sayings like, “Get your fireproof tickets here” to attract (repel) people to their doors.

Last year, the Gypsy Rose closed its doors, and the sign read, “You made me love you.” I was so intrigued by this turn of events, and I just knew there was a story behind it all. Since I drive that way a lot, I saw the estate sale and an auction for the building contents and the weeds begin to overgrow. Then one morning, the sign changed. It simply said, “You made me,” and I knew that it wasn’t the result of the other words simply falling off, because the phrase was now perfectly centered on the sign.

I am, of course, dying to know what it all means. Every time I drive by, I imagine all the ways love can go wrong. For some reason, I’m fairly sure that a man posted the letters and that he was deserted by a beautiful woman. When they started out, they had dreams and hopes and big ideas. He became obsessed with the business, however, unable to release control to anyone else, spending every day and night in the kitchen. She was lonely and neglected until a man waltzed into the bar area promising more attention and great vacations. The woman demanded her share of the restaurant, throwing the man into financial and emotional ruin. He responded with despair and invited her suitor for a drink to talk things over. He slipped cyanide in the rival’s scotch and soda, but instead of seeing his revenge come to fruition, a young waitress innocently picked up the drink, serving it to an elderly woman celebrating her 80th birthday with the man she has loved for 62 years. They toast, and for a moment she smiles at her husband happily, but then her skin grows pale… The rest is easy to figure out.

Or maybe it was nothing like that at all.

Besides being glad that I don’t write fiction, do you see the story behind? I am trying to see everyone’s behind story, because everyone has one. My friend Diana’s story includes, “Leukemia” but other people have chapters entitled, “Abuse” or “Ignored” or “Guilty” or “Afraid” or “Always wins” or “Lost” or “Hungry” or “Dirty” or “You made me.” I am not suggesting we invent stories for each other, but I am wondering if we would find it easier to love one another if we simply acknowledged that we do not understand all the places another person has been. Grace is often effortless after we’ve heard someone’s tale, but loving and accepting someone BEFORE having the facts is truly a wonderful thing.

I think that last sentence would work nicely on a church sign.