The Tree

I believe that most people have a place where they feel a strong connection with God, a certain closeness.  A place they feel more deeply, open their heart more freely, listen more intently; maybe it’s a church, or fishing in a boat on a pond.  For me that place has always been the tree.  It’s as if the long branches reach right up delivering my words to God’s ears.  Why it’s always been the tree I turn to when I seek serenity in my life, I’ve never really known.  Perhaps it was the children’s book, The Giving Tree, my father would read to me nightly as I cuddled on his lap smelling the lingering cigar smoke on his breath.  I suppose I could have chosen it because it stood all alone and I believed it needed a friend.  But if I’m to tell the truth, I like to believe that it is the tree that chose me.



Again I find myself on my knees beneath the tree; my face lifted upward feeling the gentle breeze kiss my cheeks.  The clover tickles my bare legs as I relish in the silence nature is offering me.  Not a bird chirps on the barren limbs, but yet no place feels more alive and full of miracles than my patch of paradise.  Breathing in the purity of my sanctuary, my senses spring alive yet detect nothing specific as if this place, my tree, is too heavenly to be broken down into earthly components.  I wonder for the hundredth time what kind of tree it is.  How could I come here for a lifetime and not know?  I suppose it’s an oak or even a maple; the thought passes quickly because it has no bearing.  The type of tree is irrelevant, just as God doesn’t care what race I am.  What does matter is the comforting feeling that overtakes me as I pray beneath the tree, as if God himself is wrapping me in his arms.



I don’t remember the first time I came to the tree, nor do I recall the last.  I’ve come to the tree countless times in pain and confusion, and always leave feeling stronger and more serene. 



So clearly, I recall that winter day I ran sobbing here.  I didn’t kneel; I threw my body on the cold ground, letting my tears drop freely to the Earth.  At eleven-years-old, I hadn’t experienced the death of a loved one.  Emotions were twisted and gripping my every breath. 



My prayers were answered the month before on my birthday, when I saw the golden retriever puppy pop its head out of the present box.  We had dogs before mind you, but this was my own, not to be shared with my brothers.  His name would be Benji; I must confess I chose it because my brothers hated the name, and it seemed to make the pup even more mine.  Benji became the most spoiled, loved dog in the county.  I refused to go anywhere but school without him.  And I would’ve tried to sneak him there if I hadn’t been so afraid of Old Mrs. Lucas. 



Returning from school one afternoon, I skipped up the gravel driveway to our farm house.  My father met me at the door with an expression I shall never forget, though I have tried for all my years.  He simply said, “I’m sorry,” and handed me a letter.  It was written in his crooked handwriting and if the message hadn’t been so devastating, I would have teased him about his spelling.  He explained in detail how he’d forgotten to check behind the tires when he put the truck in reverse; he was hauling cattle and his mind was elsewhere.  He didn’t mean this as an excuse, just a fact.  Hauling cattle to market was serious business, and the act of getting them loaded and praying the truck didn’t break down caused my father great stress.  My small hands began to shake as the reality of the words sunk in.  My Benji was gone, and my father carried the guilt of his death.  I left the house in a blur, no thought of where I was going, but not surprised that I ended up at the trunk of the tree.  I prayed not so much for Benji, for I knew God wouldn’t have let him suffer and must have needed him in Heaven.  My thoughts were of my father and the pain I didn’t know what to do with in my heart.  Forgiveness wasn’t the issue, I’d nothing to forgive.  No malice was done; simply an accident.  Time stood still as I lay unable to find the words for prayer, yet knowing God heard my needs.  Dusk came; somehow my body and spirit found the strength to venture home. 



Mother waited at the door wearing an expression of worry and grief.  I let her comfort me as I buried my face in her apron.  Though no words were spoken, it was obvious my brothers were upset I was hurting.  Their eyes avoided mine, and their usual nonsensical chatter was silenced.  I found my father at his card table mindlessly working a jigsaw puzzle.  My arms wrapped around his neck as I kissed his cheek.  Without letting the tears fall, a steady voice said, “Daddy, I know the perfect place to bury Benji.  Could you help me?”



His calloused hand brushed the hair out of my face as I did my best to give him a smile.  He didn’t say anything, and I believe it was because he couldn’t.  My father knew if he tried to speak, the tears he was holding back would betray him, and that would wipe away my strength as well.  Taking my hand, he led me to his shop where we made a grave marker, and that evening under the starry night, we buried dear Benji under my tree while we sang a shaky rendition of “Amazing Grace”.



Five years later I came to the tree with more anger than sorrow in my heart.  Looking back, I almost laugh because I’m sure the words I spoke to God were not the prayers we are taught.  My thoughts were of revenge.  Though I don’t really know if there is such thing as a typical teenager, I suppose I was one.  I believed that when I loved it would be forever.  Steven Fitzpatrick was the object of my devotion.  And he had promised to love me for eternity.  How then could he reject me five days before Junior Prom for Cindy Oswald?  I was certain with every fiber of my being that she didn’t even like him, yet her sole purpose in life was to make me miserable.  Stubbornness was a trait I came by naturally.  At that moment, it kept the pain hidden so that I could show them I didn’t care; I couldn’t be hurt.  Perhaps it is selective memory, but I don’t remember what I asked God for that day.  More than likely it was for them to develop severe acne or have projectile vomiting while dancing.  Whatever it was, I walked away from the tree with the feeling of unconditional and undying love that God has for us. 



I held my head up high at the dance, and acted like the lady I was raised to be.  Somewhere inside me, I even found the strength to congratulate them when they were crowned Junior Prince and Princess; and I think I might’ve even meant it.



Graduation from college brought a feeling of accomplishment and also a fear of uncertainty.  My life had consisted of goals I worked to accomplish; good grades, sports achievements, etc.  Now what were my goals?  I remember feeling like I wasn’t walking to my tree, but stumbling.  I prayed for answers to questions I didn’t even know.  I lacked a sense of direction that had always been a part of me.  I questioned the importance of the goals I had intently strived to conquer.  What did they matter now?  I couldn’t see beyond my panic to realize that all I had done was embedded in the person I was.  No tears fell that day, but I felt like the tree was spinning.  I lingered longer than usual before the connection with God was felt.  I left without the answers I sought, but with the knowledge that I needed patience for what would be offered in the next phase of my life. 



It would be more dramatic, if I could say the following day I was offered a position at a prestigious university as an education advisor.  But life isn’t always dramatic.  For a year I worked at the local coffee shop, the same job I had all through high school.  I prayed for guidance and an open mind so that I might see the path I should take.  The tree and I spent afternoons and evenings together.  I felt I was meant for big things in life, but couldn’t seem to find what they were. 



The answer came when a friend of my mother’s entered the coffee shop one August morning.  I was surprised she asked to speak to me, as I didn’t know her well myself.  Pouring her a fresh cup of coffee, she cut right to the chase, a characteristic I admire, as small talk bores me.  She currently held the position of head of the School Board and was in dire need of an English teacher.  It seemed the position had been abruptly vacated when Jason Jones was stationed in Germany, and his new wife, the former English teacher, couldn’t bear the thought of being apart.  I had my education degree, but teaching middle school wasn’t what I planned.  I wanted more; a chance to make a major difference, place my mark on the world.  After all, my mother was a teacher, shouldn’t I do better? 



Suddenly, the vision of the tree came to me, and I realized this was the opportunity God was giving me.  That was fifteen years ago, and I’ve never thought of leaving this school.  The first day those faces stared back at me, it was clear this was my chance to make a difference.  I find that few people like middle school children; however, I’m the exception.  I love them, probably because we’re so much alike.  In my opinion, most adults are kids in disguise.  One day we want to be in charge, the next we want to be taken care of, and the next we have no idea what we want.  Middle schoolers are just more open about expressing what we suppress.



The reason I’ve come to the tree today is because of those students. Yesterday, I become frustrated with some of their lack of gratitude.  I began giving my speech about being thankful, actually saying ‘thank you’, and looking beyond yourself.  There may be an echo in my classroom because I heard my own words coming back at me. 



I drove to my parents’ land with questions swirling in my head.  How many times had I talked to God under the tree about my wants, needs, or simply questions I had?  Why did I run to the tree in times of trouble, instead of times of joy?  Why had God allowed the special connection to continue though I seemingly abused it?



Feeling the bond of this place, I do not hang my head in shame, but lift it in thanks.  I pray to God with the truest words I’ve ever spoken:

“Thank you for this place that has brought me such comfort through the years.  You’ve given me strength, knowledge, and love; all of which I have neglected giving thanks for.  You’ve protected me from my own pride.  You’ve given me a path to change the world, one child at a time, showing me how to love and be loved.  The words are clear to me now.  Thank you, God, for everything.  And thank you, God, for the tree.”





Word count:  1999