I have known them all my life. Happy memories, mostly, involve them or being at their place. Like trees of an ancient forest, they grew strong and tall. They provided shelter beneath its branches and calm at poignant moments of life. When life was brisk and difficult to process, a starlit night afforded the most peaceful silence with stars twinkling and a small breeze blowing through the trees. As far as a one of the places on earth that in my opinion that I would call heaven on earth, it would be at my grandparents’ farm with them (and family gathered).
This morning I was shared a quote from Richard Power’s novel The Overstory, “Trees fall with spectacular crashes.” On my grandparents’ farm on the edge of one of the west ponds once stood a tree—tall and proud—and for recent years, and due to a wind storm, broke and much of the tree had fallen into the edge of the pond. And there it still remains today. Other tall trees of people, love, encouragement, conversation, Christmas and family gatherings, etc., now slowly one by one crash to the earth. And while others stand by gazing at the spectacular and then move on as if the event was insignificant; wish all I might, I desire to lift back up the fallen comrade or least support the remaining stands of memories with diligent effort. To stop the hands of time would be wonderful. Why continue seeing death and loss steal away the most precious place (of memories) and people when I can enjoy it all for a longer time? Even better if I could even turn back time to be a youth (but a Christian) that instead of witnessing leaning and dying trees crashing, it would rather be great to see these trees to be again young, tall, and strong, welcoming all in its branches a love and dignity that almost feels like a soft and wonderful quilt wrapping around our bodies on a cold night. Why am I losing my places of fond memories and the people I love? What spectacular crashes have been evident in our lives?
On my front porch in a small yellow bucket is a very small tree whose limbs grow very slowly. My wife and I dug it up from my grandparents’ property last Christmas before we went back to Texas. Almost a year has passed and despite the soil, water, and very ample sunlight, this small tree seems to never want to grow. A second sentence from The Overstory was also brought to my attention, “But planting is silent and growth is invisible”. What seeds or samplings have been deposited into our lives? We grow frustrated with the lack and speed of growth and progress. A singular statement from the ancient prophet Zechariah whispers in our ears to bring clarity into our rush (4:10, NLT), “Do not despise these small beginnings, for the LORD rejoices to see the work begin…” I am not a botanist but if trees have a memory and could feel, I wonder if that lone sampling in the bucket remembers those cold days of winter and very warm days of summer near the stony edge of my grandparents’ pond on the farm with its kinsmen nearby. Sighing and lamenting the sampling knows not why it was removed to begin with. Why won’t it grow?
We may feel that way. People, events, sins, they crash all around us. We lament and fight back the end. But in doing so we fail to witness and desire that growth—just like the temple in Zechariah’s day—trees/love/family on a farm, and the promises and seeds of God deposited into the soil of our hearts. It may appear that God, love, family, children, etc. grow silent and invisible in our hearts and lives. But if we do not despise small beginnings, a sure foundation will be established—built on others—that one day years or decades from now (Jesus should tarry) others will gather under our loving branches and feel the same love, peace, security, and reflection I often felt on that farm.