The Maple and The Oak

When I was young, there was a big maple tree outside my bedroom window. I remember watching birds perch on its branches then fly onto the roof, sometimes making nests where I could hear their scrabbling and squeaking, but not see them. I vividly remember one morning when I watched a cardinal perch on a branch and eat something. During the summer, when the windows were open, the wind in the branches reminded me of Heidi's affection for the wind in the firs on the mountain. The leaves whispered and the branches creaked.

Now I have a maple out my back door. When I sit at my chair at the kitchen table, I can look out the back door and see it waving in the breeze. I can hear it whispering through the open windows on those long lazy afternoons, when the neighborhood is quiet before the evening rush. And on the back porch at night, if I close my eyes, I can imagine that it is just the tree and I in an open field.

Maples have been my friends through growing pains, and making good times even better. During seasons of depression, they have been a reminder into a world full of life. As the winter sets in, the fire of life bursts from their leaves in red and orangey-yellow and mottled peach. The mingled smell of wet and dry leaves as we rake them into piles, then jump into them, fills my lungs with youth and happiness. Then I hide under them, for a half-second dreaming in leaf stained-glass windows; there in my private sanctuary, I wait for a little boys to find me, listening to the hymns of their giggles. In just a few months, their stark bare branches begin showing red buds that point to the spring that seems to take forever to come. I have watched them grow and die and new life sprout from their winged leaves. Maples are my friends, for they are trees of balance and generosity. 

But when my father chose a tree for me, he chose a white oak. Known for its strength and endurance,  its tousled head holds onto leaves all through the winter. Its wood is strong and resilient, carrying a special tannin that keeps out many parasites. White oak barrels are used for aging wines (the American oak is favored for brandy, sherry and other liquors, though it also brings out a different flavor in wine) and even the cork tree is a kind of oak. It has historically been the wood of shipbuilders, and favored for timber-framed buildings. But also beautiful with is white and dark grain markings, it is prized for paneling, veneer, and furniture. Oak trees, when in a forest, often grow taller than the other trees, reaching, always reaching for the light. Those in the open, spread and extend, often growing as wide as they are tall. It is not uncommon for them to grow to be 200-300 years old, though some may be longer. But it is a tree of the fields and forest, and often cannot tolerate the pollution that comes with city life. Even the salt from the streets can harm them. Though when they survive, their slow growth will break the pavement that surrounds them, rather than conform to it.

Each of us children have a home tree, or perhaps it should be called a heart tree. My father would tell us how he would pray for us as he mowed around our trees, and my sister and I have often pondered the symbolism of our trees. She recently wrote to me, "I've always thought our home trees were sort of symbolic for who we are/where we are in life. Yours flourished early and grew tall and strong dwarfing the rest of us. You married first, grew from your college experience, loved your job. My tree (sugar maple) grew steadily quickly matching Keith's (also a maple). Now his has out grown mine again I think. And if you remember, Curt's first tree died. Dad went to the woods and dug up another, unwilling to give up on his wayward son. Now he is becoming an oak of righteousness."

So I am an oak. Unsuited to cities or even small town life, I thrive in wide open places. Trees, water, rocks, green growing things seem to nurture my soul. On our little plot of land that we share with three other apartments, I feel closed in. In our house that looks out on other houses, I feel claustrophobic. In a world of engage, relate, serve, I often feel burnt out and exhausted. When pressured by make, do, accomplish, I give into measuring myself by outcomes. Yet even when I find myself in this busy world, I reach up for light, finding windows, patches of sky, and green growing things for company. 

Slow to change, yet steadily reaching for the Son, I am growing. The changes may not be visible on the outside, but inner rings of light and dark are forming. Seasonly prolific, like the trees that drop acorns with only a 10% germination rate, I occasionally learn that I have unintentionally blessed many who happen to pass under my boughs and stopped to feed on my acorns. So like the tree, I will slow down, feel the wind in my hair, and watch the rings grow, measurable outcomes un-quantifiable until it is cut down, yet its legacy continuing through generations.