Dad and the Acacia Tree

Where I grew up in rural Northern California, the 4 seasons were not sharply defined like they are here in the Ozarks. Most of the trees were evergreens, predominately redwoods, which didn't have noticeable seasonal changes; our seasons were defined more subtly. Summer was squealing with shock as we dipped into the frigid Smith River, and riding Larry Johnson's donkey, Joe. In the evenings, after dinner, we'd play softball with friends from the neighborhood, disbanding reluctantly at dusk when we could scarcely see home plate. Fall would begin with a familiar knot in my stomach at the loss of freedom. Then, I'd settle into the routine of math competitions and science projects, and history class with the handsome Mr. Vernon. But there was always something magical about spring.

Spring was riding my bike to the beach down Moorehead Road, past the fields of cows and the handmade sign, For Sale - Red Wriggler Fish worms. Spring was the hum of bees, the fragrance of wildflowers on the wind, and the feeling that things were all right with the world.

In my world, spring was also defined by the acacia tree. My family lived in the parsonage behind the only church in town. In the front yard of the church was a vast acacia tree. It was a perfect tree for climbing, its massive limbs reaching so low that all but the very youngest of us could manage to scramble up and perch there after church. The limbs were covered with tiny holes, which at the time, I thought was characteristic of acacia trees but have since realized was the work of woodpeckers. This may have indicated something about the health of the tree. Whatever its condition, it always managed to put on a grand display in the spring when its tiny blossoms, like miniature yellow tennis balls, covered the tree, garnering the attention of everyone in town. 

My father, besides being the pastor, also acted as a groundskeeper. When he determined the tree was no longer safe, without any notice, he cut it down, an act that managed to anger a good part of the congregation and much of the community. Dad was never too concerned about public opinion. He may have seemed impulsive at times, but he had probably been thinking about that tree for a long time. Dad didn't want to get into an extensive discussion about it or have a committee formed to study the implications of such an action. He certainly didn't want to see any children get hurt.

One way or another, people managed to get over the loss, and nobody could stay mad at Dad for long. He was just too fun to be around. His laughter would fill a room like the aroma of mom's Sunday pot roast.

After all these years, I've decided that besides keeping the church kids safe, my father did us all a favor by cutting that old acacia tree down. He reminded us that nothing here on earth, not even things of exquisite beauty, are permanent. Centuries ago, the prophet Isaiah said it best:

The grass withers and the flowers fall,

because the breath of the Lord blows on them.

Surely the people are grass.

The grass withers and the flowers fall,

but the word of our God endures forever.

Isaiah 40:7, 8

In a world of falling blossoms, 

it's good to know that the God who endures is the One who loves us deeply, who sent His only Son so we can live.

And this is the testimony:

God has given us eternal life,

and this life is in His Son.

1 John 5:11

First published on March 20, 2011

Linking with Saturday's Critters

 

Whispers of Spring

After basking in the glow of the fireplace, 

winter has kicked off its slippers and cracked open the window to spring.

The ancient yellow daffodils are up a good 5 inches and there's new fuzz on the lamb's ears.

A few of the lilac buds have swollen and burst.

Inside their small purple packages, along with their bottled-up fragrance, is the promise of beauty and nectar.

From the pond, we hear spring peepers singing, and late at night, under the stars, coyotes join the chorus with their love songs.

Barley takes note, and is happy to curl up safe inside for the night.

Autumn arrives in the early morning,

but spring at the close of a winter day.

Elizabeth Bowden

First published on February 20, 2012

Linking with Saturday's Critters

False Spring

It doesn't take much to get everybody's hopes up. We get a few days of nice weather, and even nature starts thinking, "Spring!" 

Yesterday, when it was still January, there was a fly and a cricket in the house, a small snake on the front porch,
and two ticks rode back from the woods on Barley. 

The trees have not capitulated to the siren song of spring yet, but some of the fields have already turned green...

 ...and the snowdrops, though always early, were swaying in a springlike breeze today.

Of course, it's only February 1st, and even if we didn't follow Kevin on channel 10, or Ron and Abby on KY3, 

we'd still know that these balmy days won't last.

About this time every year, I'm reminded of the ancient promise God gave to Noah:

“As long as the earth endures,

seedtime and harvest,

cold and heat,

summer and winter,

day and night

will never cease.” 

Genesis 8:22

The promise has never been broken, and I believe we can safely say that, sooner or later, spring will come.

Don doesn't even like to hear me breathe this prayer, but Barley and I can't help asking:
"Please, God, can we have at least one good snow first?"


Linking with Saturday's Critters,

Skywatch Friday

and Wednesday Around the World

Blush of Spring

It always starts with the Spring Peepers. Some years those small frogs begin announcing the passing of winter timidly, one or two at a time, tuning up for early rehearsals. But a week ago, when the last patches of snow lay scattered on the ground, a full chorus of peepers started singing simultaneously from the pond, as if they had been practicing in secret for that day.

The cardinals heard it, and the next morning one male started his cadence while it was still dark, "wet, wet, wet, wet" over and over, staking out his territory. As dawn broke, the air became saturated with bird song, sounding glorious after a quiet winter. 

Deer have been browsing on new tufts of clover that sprung up overnight, and Harbinger of Spring and Bluet, those diminutive wildflowers, carpet the ground. Overhead, geese are winging their way back north.

Soft showers fell all day yesterday and on through the night, stimulating a green blush from the fields and lawns.

Springtime comes again, new every year, yet ancient, from the hand of the One who made all creatures, and, with the others, we lift a song of gratitude.

  

“But ask the animals, and they will teach you,

    or the birds in the sky, and they will tell you;

or speak to the earth, and it will teach you,

    or let the fish in the sea inform you.

Which of all these does not know

    that the hand of the Lord has done this?

In his hand is the life of every creature

    and the breath of all mankind.

Job 12:7-10

Ask the Lord for rain in the springtime;

it is the Lord who makes the storm clouds.

He gives showers of rain to men,

and plants of the field to everyone.

Zechariah 10:1

Linking with Saturday's Critters

Spring and the Acacia Tree

My brother, Raym,
and yours truly on Joe the donkey,
circa 1962

Where I grew up in rural Northern California, the 4 seasons were not sharply defined like they are here in the Ozarks. Most of the trees were evergreens, predominately redwoods, which didn't have noticeable seasonal changes; our seasons were defined more subtly. Summer was squealing with shock as we dipped into the frigid Smith River, and riding Larry Johnson's donkey, Joe. In the evenings, after dinner, we'd play softball with friends from the neighborhood, disbanding reluctantly at dusk when we could scarcely see home plate. Fall would begin with a familiar knot in my stomach at the loss of freedom. Then, I'd settle into the routine of math competitions and science projects, and history class with the handsome Mr. Vernon. But there was always something magical about spring.

Spring was riding my bike to the beach down Moorehead Road, past the fields of cows and the handmade sign, For Sale - Red Wriggler Fish worms. Spring was the hum of bees, the fragrance of wildflowers on the wind, and the feeling that things were all right with the world.

In my world, spring was also defined by the acacia tree. My family lived in the parsonage behind the only church in town. In the front yard of the church was a vast acacia tree. It was a perfect tree for climbing, its massive limbs reaching so low that all but the very youngest of us could manage to scramble up and perch there after church. The limbs were covered with tiny holes, which at the time, I thought was characteristic of acacia trees but have since realized was the work of woodpeckers. This may have indicated something about the health of the tree. Whatever its condition, it always managed to put on a grand display in the spring when its tiny blossoms, like miniature yellow tennis balls, covered the tree, garnering the attention of everyone in town. 

My father, besides being the pastor, also acted as a groundskeeper. When he determined the tree was no longer safe, without any notice, he cut it down, an act that managed to anger a good part of the congregation and much of the community. Dad was never too concerned about public opinion. He may have seemed impulsive at times, but he had probably been thinking about that tree for a long time. Dad didn't want to get into an extensive discussion about it or have a committee formed to study the implications of such an action. He certainly didn't want to see any children get hurt.

One way or another, people managed to get over the loss, and nobody could stay mad at Dad for long. He was just too fun to be around. His laughter would fill a room like the aroma of mom's Sunday pot roast.

After all these years, I've decided that besides keeping the church kids safe, my father did us all a favor by cutting that old acacia tree down. He reminded us that nothing here on earth, not even things of exquisite beauty, are permanent. Centuries ago, the prophet Isaiah said it best:

The grass withers and the flowers fall,

because the breath of the Lord blows on them.

Surely the people are grass.

The grass withers and the flowers fall,

but the word of our God endures forever.

Isaiah 40:7, 8

In a world of falling blossoms, 

it's good to know that the God who endures is the One who loves us deeply, who sent His only Son so we can live.

And this is the testimony:

God has given us eternal life,

and this life is in His Son.

1 John 5:11