Dead Trees and Broken Promises

The tree is dead.  Dead.

tree-54425_640To say I am unhappy would be truthful.  But, I think it goes even deeper than that.

I feel betrayed.

Twelve years ago, the Lovely Lady and I put a sapling in the ground.  We were careful to follow all the recommendations of the nursery from which we purchased the beautiful little promise of a tree.

Well?  That’s what it was—was it not?  

It was a promise of shady spaces and wind rustling through green leaves.  The promise of branches for grandchildren (not yet born) to climb upon in summertime and of brilliant purples of autumn splendor.

A promise—that’s what it was.

A broken promise.  Now.

Day after day I look out to see if anything has changed.  Every other plant in the neighborhood has burst out in green celebration of the new life Spring entices to accompany itself.  

Already, I’ve had to trim a foot of new growth from the hedge on the opposite end of the front yard, so rapid has been its exuberant development.

I’ve told you about the magnificent scarlet maple around the corner in the backyard and its fantastic enterprise of repopulating the world. Since its emissaries of choice, the spinning jennies floating on the spring breezes, have already done their part, the stately tree has simply covered itself in greenery and is content.

But, what of the twenty-foot-tall ash tree in the front yard?  

Nothing.  No buds.  No leaves.  

Nothing.  

It’s dead.

As often as I walk past it, I break off a little twig and test for life.  The dead wood snaps like a match stick.  Every time.

There will be no shade this year.  Not long from now, if my grandson grabs a limb and pulls himself up onto it, as he did only last week, the limb will give way under his weight.

Broken limb.  Broken promise.

I feel betrayed.  Angry even.

I know, I know—it’s just a tree.  But, I’m not the first to feel this way.  Others have been angry at the loss of their shade, too.

Take Jonah, for instance.  He sat on the hillside, ready to watch a spectacle (though fairly certain it wouldn’t happen) and enjoyed the shade of the plant under which he rested.  When it shriveled the next day, he was angry.  (Jonah 4:6-8)

He wanted to die.  Angry at God for taking his shade, he begged to be allowed to die.

I’m not that mad, but the message of Jonah is starting to get through my thick skull anyway.  

There was never a promise made to me with regard to this tree.  The Creator of all we know allows us to enjoy His gifts.  And, sometimes He takes one away.

In my experience, when He takes away, He gives something better.  I don’t think there’s any promise of that, but it seems to be the way He works.

Often, I think we miss this message when we blame God for the loss of other things which are precious to us.  We forget that He is God.  We forget that He is looking at all of time and history as His plan unfolds.

Still, the losses hurt.  We wonder if we’ve been betrayed.  Anger rises.

But, the tree was never mine.  The things we have lost were always His.

There is a promise I remember about trees.  The promise, spoken beautifully by the psalmist in one of my favorite pieces of poetry, is clear.  (The entire Psalm will be found below, in the old English as I first heard it, years ago.)

The upright person, one who loves God and wants nothing or no one else, is going to be like a tree planted by the river, with roots going down deep into the fertile soil.  

No withered greenery here—no brittle limbs that snap under the fingers—no barren branches.  In every season, this tree will produce its prescribed crop.  Every time.

A promise, not of immense wealth, nor of fame and renown, but of faithfulness and a legacy.

I don’t have to remind you of the rest of the promise, do I?  The psalmist spent no more time on it than will I:

Reject Him and what little impact you have on your world will fade and disappear with a strong wind.

A sobering thought.  Both parts of the promise, I mean.  

Sobering.

I think I like the idea of trees with roots that go down deep.  

Maybe the next one I plant will be like that.  No promises.

But, that other tree?

Our Creator keeps His promises.

Green leaves.  Fruit, in season.  Bounty.

I like trees.

You?

 

 

God writes the Gospel not in the Bible alone, but also on trees, and in the flowers and clouds and stars.
(Martin Luther ~ German theologian/reformer ~ 1483-1546)

Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor standeth in the way of sinners, nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful.
But his delight is in the law of the Lord; and in his law doth he meditate day and night.
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.

The ungodly are not so: but are like the chaff which the wind driveth away.
Therefore the ungodly shall not stand in the judgment, nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous.
For the Lord knoweth the way of the righteous: but the way of the ungodly shall perish.
(Psalm 1 ~ KJV)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2016. All Rights Reserved.

Softly

A soft answer turneth away wrath: but grievous words stir up anger. (Proverbs 15:1)

And, with those words from the Preacher, you already know enough about me to write my biography.

Funny.  I used to think I was the only one.  Today, I look around this brave, new world in which we live, and I observe a tsunami of grievous words.

Surely the only possible outcome can be a firestorm of anger.

They sow the wind and reap the whirlwind.  Not my words—the prophet Hosea used them centuries ago.  The truth hits home more today than at any time I can think of.

Daily we see it.  In the public square, there is little civil discourse, only incendiary  agitation.  Names are called, accusations made, and arguments proclaimed with arrogance and demeaning language.  And the other side simply sits quietly and waits their turn.

What?  They don’t wait quietly?  Well, of course they don’t.

co-workers-294266_1280In social media, on television, and through the radio waves, the volume is increased until no one can listen.  The only way to inject a viewpoint into the conversation is to scream at opportune moments.  

Aided by the instantaneous and public nature of our technology, the clamor is amplified exponentially.

The din is spectacular.  And deafening.

And astonishingly pointless.
                              

Quiet communication calms the brawling spirit, but argumentative voices fan the flames.
                              

I still have the old Bible at home and use it frequently.  The black leather cover is frayed and ragged at the edges and the binding is separated.  And yet, the words on the flyleaf still jump out at me every time I open it.  As if it had been written yesterday, the reminder still grips and convicts.

The beautiful script is the handwriting of a loving father who understood, all too well, his teen-aged son.  

The words of which I speak are those of the Proverb which you see at the top of this essay.

My father knew his son.  He knew what I was made of—knew my bent to argument and arrogance.  

I have spent a lifetime trying to tame the beast within, the beast of pride and defiance.  But, like the Apostle who was called the brother of our Lord, I have lost the battle with the tiny tongue again and again.  James suggests there is not one of us who is able to tame our tongue. (James 3:3-8)

But, it must be tamed.  Must be.  And the tools are within reach.  

The wisdom of our Creator is pure, peace loving, and considerate.  (James 3:17)

You see, our Father knows His children and what they are made of.  He knows our bent to arrogance and argument.  

But, He wants better for us.

I chuckle as I recall the conclusion of James at the end of his disheartening exposé on the untameable tongue.  The contrast with the prophet Hosea’s words is striking.  James avers that peacemakers who sow in peace reap a harvest of righteousness. (James 3:18)

We don’t have to sow the wind.  We don’t have to reap the whirlwind.  That crop is not profitable in any way.

Sowing peace, we reap righteousness.

Sowing peace, we reap righteousness. Click To Tweet

Many of the voices I hear raised in rage today claim righteousness.  I wonder.

Softly, softly.  Our friends across the pond use the term to describe the approach most likely to yield the positive results we seek.

Perhaps we could try that.

Softly.  

Softly.

 

 

 

 

 

Shhhh.  Be vewy vewy quiet.  I’m hunting wabbits.
(Elmer Fudd ~ Loony Tunes cartoon character)

 

People’s minds are changed through observation and not through argument.
(Will Rogers ~ American humorist/columnist ~ 1879-1935)

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2015. All Rights Reserved.