family tree

I thought today would be the day.

Today should have been the day. I’ve put it off far too long.

Yes. Today. I got out the saw. I was already dressed appropriately, having pulled on work clothes as I rolled out of bed this morning.

It wouldn’t be a quick job; that didn’t really matter. I would take off a limb here, another one there. Slow and steady wins the race. That’s what the red-headed lady who raised me would have said.

If there’s anything I’m good at, it’s slow. Steady? Not so much. Still, today was the day.

I extended the pole-saw up far enough to lop off a limb that overhung the fence. Not large enough to damage it when it fell, but enough to see progress had been made.

Thunk!

The branch from the old apple tree smacked the ground harder than I anticipated. This was really happening, wasn’t it? I reached up for another. As I reached, my mind reached back.

Thunk!

I leaned the long pole-saw against the five-foot-tall welded-wire fence. That was all I could do. I needed to sit down. Soon. I wasn’t sure I could even manage the strength to pull the limbs out to the brush pile, next to the little cul-de-sac street in front of the old house.

I got them out there, but the weight on my chest just wouldn’t go away.

I went inside and sat down, angry at myself. This was stupid. It should have been a simple job. Cut down the old shrunken and split apple tree. How difficult could it be?

History has weight. It does. It comes with an onus, an obligation.

I’ve just never felt it quite that heavy before. Oh, living in this world for over sixty years has taught me the lesson a little. But, the last few years are schooling me in that particular chapter more than I ever wanted.

I thought I was ready. As much as anything, that old tree signifies my memories of a family whose life has been tied up in this little patch of land and this old house from its first days. The Lovely Lady grew up playing near it and others, now long cut down. For more than half a century, the changing seasons have brought forth desserts and side-dishes worth remembering from the tree.

But, the tree has reached the end of its life. I’ve written about it here before—the twisting of the storm winds that opened the huge split, now held up by a two-by-four and a couple of plumber’s straps—and the shearing off of the largest part of the tree this last spring as another weather front blew through.

We would gather one last crop, having one last season to enjoy the applesauce and an apple pie or two—perhaps even a big pan of apple crisp drowned in heavy whipping cream. Then the tree, having lived a full life, would come down to be replaced by new ones planted in and near its footprint.

The last crop never came, the little green apples that promised so expectantly last spring disappearing before ever one came to the table. Barren. The tree is done. It will have to come down.

But, the unkept promise of one more crop rankles. Unfinished business. What if—what if we tried to keep it alive just one more cycle, one more time through the process the Creator programmed into its DNA?

Tomorrow.

I need more time. The weight of that final act is too heavy for me today.

Maybe next week. Or next year.

It’s silly, isn’t it? A tree. It’s only a tree.

The heart is so foolish. And, so fickle.

The weight of the past seems a very real thing, slowing us down, keeping us hoping against hope, even convincing us that tomorrow will work better than today.

It won’t.

The apostle (my namesake) stood before the Roman governor and told him his future if he didn’t turn around. Felix listened and, with the weight of his situation on him, told Paul he would consider it at a more convenient time. (Acts 24:25)

There will be no more convenient time.

Today.

That’s what we have.

Today.

In my many years as confessor to quite a number of folks (for some reason, the counter at our music store seemed a comfortable place for the rite, with both stranger and friend, young and old participating), I can’t count the number of people who wanted yesterday back.

From the man who told me on the day of his grandmother’s funeral of refusing to return one last phone call to her, to the boy who needed another shot at demonstrating his love for an absent girlfriend, they all wanted to live that particular today over again.

Today has an expiration date. It’s today.

Today has an expiration date. It's today. Click To Tweet

The opportunities forfeited—the doorways passed by—all come back with a history and a weight all their own.

You see, we make history with every action and every inaction, every word spoken and every one left unsaid.

History has weight. Somehow, time seems to make it heavier.

It’s time to lighten our loads.

Jesus promised a lighter burden if we’d come to Him. The offer still stands. (Matthew 11:28-29)

The weight of our history need not overwhelm nor cripple us.

The weight of our history need not overwhelm nor cripple us. Come. Rest. Click To Tweet

We’ve all got enough apple trees to grapple with in our lives without adding to that weight.

Come.

Rest.

Do it today. Today.

There’ll be apple pie again.

There will.

Shall we never get rid of this Past? . . . It lies upon the Present like a giant’s dead body.
(from The House of the Seven Gables ~ Nathaniel Hawthorne ~ American author ~ 1804-1864)

Are we weak and heavy laden,
Cumbered with a load of care?
Precious Savior, still our refuge,
Take it to the Lord in Prayer.
(from What a Friend We Have in Jesus ~ Lyrics by Joseph Scriven ~ Public Domain)

Look, Grandpa! The tree’s broken!

The sweet seven-year-old, disheveled blonde hair flying into her eyes, spoke the momentous words without any idea of the turmoil they would bring. Within seconds, she was standing on a stepladder pulling little green fruit from the branches she could reach. I almost didn’t remember to warn her of the impending stomachache. Almost.

I was the one who felt as if he had been punched in the stomach.

The tree will die. It is inevitable.

I am sad.

It’s really not my tree. It doesn’t change how I feel about it.

The Lovely Lady and I are returning to her roots. For nearly seventy years, the old house and surrounding property have been part of her family, her parents having moved in the house within a few years of being married.

We’ve spent several months breathing new life into the house, with the property needing as much resuscitation as the building. Days, we’ve spent clearing overgrowth and dead limbs, along with more than a few saplings which had poked their branches up where they weren’t wanted.

But the old apple tree, with its gnarled limbs and bowed trunk—looking for all the world like an ancient fellow bent by years of backbreaking work—the old apple tree was meant to stay forever.

Forty years ago, it was. Four decades back, this summer, I first tasted the fruit from that tree. Sitting at the table, long hair to my shoulders and skinny as one of the branches of the tree, I ate—gobbled down, really—the serving of apple crisp set before me by the Lovely Young Lady’s mother.

Before the meal was done, I asked for another serving, and then another. Slightly tart, yet pleasingly sweet, the crunch of the crumbly crust almost a surprise as one chewed, it was a treat to be savored and assigned to the memory banks for a lifetime.

I expected a repeat performance later this summer when the little green apples—the ones the neighborhood deer herd can’t reach from their hind legs—have turned to shades of yellows and reds.

My granddaughter is right. The tree is broken. An errant wind, whipped up in a rainstorm a week or so ago, has twisted the gnarled, bowed trunk and opened a crack that, as an old friend used to say, you could sling a cat through.

I feel as if an old friend has been told he has mere weeks to live. The thought of losing this old companion is more than I want to contemplate, but still, my mind mulls over the future.

That night, my daughter assures me, the children went to bed with nary a sign of a bellyache. I’m the one who is sick to his stomach.

I suppose it’s laughable. I could understand an uninvolved individual chortling at the idea.

It’s a ratty old tree! Who cares if it dies? Plant another one there. Or—better yet—build a fire circle with a pit. Parties are better than apple crisp any day!

It’s not even my tree.

Well, in a way, I suppose it is. You might call it the family tree.

I know. Puns aren’t universally loved. I love them, though.

You see, the Lovely Lady can’t remember a day when that apple tree wasn’t there. I don’t know if her dad planted it or not, but he certainly tended it for decades, ensuring it would bear fruit and be there for the foreseeable future. In a way, you might say, it was his legacy.

A legacy.

Better than money or belongings, this thing left behind, this family tree, carries with it special powers. I look at it and am carried back forty years to apple crisp and fresh applesauce, straight from the Foley Food Mill. The Lovely Lady goes back another decade and remembers climbing the old tree with her siblings, each in their own quadrant, to pick and eat the not-so-sweet fruit to their heart’s content.

Years of family history have gone by, and the tree that is not mine has seen every minute of those years.

But, this I remember and take heart: The legacy will not die with the old tree.

Memories live in our hearts. Long after that old tree is gone, I will, in my mind, taste the delicious desserts made from its fruit.

The legacy left behind is so much more important than trees that perish in the storm or money that is soon exhausted in the marketplace.

I was grafted into her family tree decades ago; although once a stranger, I was never treated as anything but a son and brother. Her legacy is mine, and vice versa.

Funny. Suddenly, I’m thinking of that other family tree I’ve been grafted into.

You know the one I mean.

We’ve been grafted into God’s tree, to be a part of His family forever. (Romans 11:17)

Wild, unproductive branches, we.

Once, we were.

No longer. With roots that go deep, this tree’s legacy is ours forever.

Even though it was never our tree, to begin with.

What a gift!

How would we not carry on the legacy and share it freely?

Carry on His legacy. Share it freely. Click To Tweet

I’m still sad about the apple tree. Perhaps, I’ll plant another one.

Future generations may need to taste that apple crisp again.

I know I can still taste it.

And, it’s still good.

The great use of life is to spend it for something that will outlast it.
(William James ~ American philosopher ~ 1842-1910)

And he shall be like a tree planted by the rivers of water, that bringeth forth his fruit in his season; his leaf also shall not wither; and whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.
(Psalm 1:3 ~ KJV)

He's Taken Leave

Random wanderings with Paul Phillips

Maybe Tomorrow

Not My Tree