Today, in the backyard of my childhood home is a forty foot pine tree. Forty-Five years ago this fall, next to an in ground concrete pond of mongrel fish bred from dime store gold fish and leftover fishing minnows, beside a generous apple tree and a pink dogwood tree, Dad, my older brother Bill, and I planted three pine trees. My mother watched us and wondered why, I suppose, we would put another obstacle in the ground to make Aubrey’s mowing job more difficult. But we did, one late fall morning, we planted three pine trees.
One died during our neighborhood football game—heartlessly crushed under an eight year old Dallas Cowboys’ sneaker. Aubrey accidently mowed down another the next summer. But one–the one now standing—grew and grew and grew. The interloper overshadows the apple tree (out of protest I’ve heard that the old tree gives sour green fruit), poisons the beautiful dogwood tree and gold-minnow hybrid fish with its deciduous toxin saps. And the darn thing continues to grow about a foot a year!
That pine tree intrudes itself into my soul. I saw it the last time I went to Arkansas—it reminded me of my 49 year old father in the last moments of his life gasping for breath, in mortal agony and pain. Terrible things were happening to that man. Things he did not deserve. He did not even live even one half of a century.
Sticky, brown, ageless, untouched even by the coldest Arkansas winter, the pine tree still quietly stands, smirking at all of us dying human beings. It was birthed 25 years after my dad was born and has lived 30 years after he died. For 55 years it has lived, haunted my soul.
Flaunting its immortality, the venerable tree postures itself in silent mockery of the rest of us who are struggling to deal with the many vicissitudes of life.?? I wish that pine was dead too. As it overshadows my old yard, robbing all other life of light and sustenance, so also it overshadows me.
I see my simple, caring, innocent father, kneeling and gently placing that ungrateful pine tree into the Arkansas delta. Lovingly pouring water among its selfish, grasping roots, he squats in silent hope. He really expected to live to see that tree tower above our farm house. So did I. So do we all.
That tree gives me painful thoughts of what was and will never be again. What might have been but was not. What I want but what I have instead. He will never meet three of my children. He will never know any of his great grandchildren.
He is not here when I need him. Even today I reach for the phone to tell him something, to ask him something. As God or cancer or whatever it is that unmercilessly, slowly, torturously stole life from Dad, I similarly would like to kill that tree—slowly painfully stripping it of life until every evil, uncaring, nasty pine cone and needle joins my poor dad in his grave.
“But the angel said to them, “Do not be afraid, I bring you good News of great joy that will be for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you…” (Luke 2:10)
To those of us who wake up in the morning and reach for an absent dead spouse, the angels bring good news indeed. To those of us who despair on Christmas Eve as we peer into the bright lights of our Christmas tree and only feel the anger of our divorced husband or wife, the coming of the Christ child is real, much needed hope. To those who quietly grieve through absent birthdays and anniversary, there is still hope.
Let the ancient pine trees in our lives grow, and grow, and grow! We are not afraid. Someday I hope to show that old pine tree to my grandchildren, dad’s great-great grandchildren. To tell them about times that once were and shall never be again. About their great grandfather and Great grandmother and all the faithful saints who loved Jesus Christ and are waiting for them in heaven.
Let the pine trees cover the sky! Let their arms reach beyond the world until they fill our souls, for, you see, we fear not. Our Savior has come.