Four Years, Two Trees, and a Lifetime Apart
It was August, 1995. The weather was very hot that summer, in the 90’s if I remember correctly. We were learning how to cope with being new parents to our son Christopher. That meant lots of sleepless nights, bottle washing, diapers, and the other marks of a newborn. It was fun, exhausting, and challenging all at the same time. And in the midst of this, Ruth’s father was lying in a Bellingham hospital dying.
Dad had multiple strokes over the years. The last stroke was severe enough to require hospitalization, and we all knew that he would probably not live long. The last few years of his life were spent quietly feeding the cows on the farm or playing with the grandchildren. Dad was not a leader, but a follower. Despite his low profile life, we loved him and we knew God loved him.
We received a call on the morning of September 5 that Dad had died. We made the trip to Bellingham for the funeral, and spent the next months learning how to cope without Dad.
Some time passed and during one visit, Mom told us an interesting story. There was an old apple tree in their back yard. It was a pathetic looking tree, really. It was all bent over and had obviously seen many harsh winters. What’s worse, it didn’t seem to bear any decent fruit. The apples from the tree tasted exceptionally bad. In fact, the only person who ate them at all was Dad. He ate the apples each year. When someone would suggest that maybe the tree should be cut down, he would not even consider it. The tree was there for Dad, and Dad was there for the tree.
Mom told us that the day after Dad died, an interesting thing happened to that apple tree – it split right down the middle. Through no outside influence, the tree split from top to bottom and died. The family cut the tree up and hauled it away. Apparently, God decided that its work was done, and that it was time for it to rest. It seemed like an extraordinary sign of love for a quiet, understated farmer.
Fast forward with me now to 1999. It was summer again (although hard to tell by the weather). I was standing next to our house, looking up at the apple tree just outside our bedroom window. For the sixth consecutive year in a row, I debated whether to cut the tree down. While not as pathetic looking as the apple tree in Mom and Dad’s back yard, our apple tree didn’t exactly look great either (maybe they all look this bad?). And unlike our parent’s tree, this one didn’t even bear any fruit. I had just never gotten around to cutting it down, but this year would be different.
Well, things happen and sometimes our best laid plans are never realized. It was like that with the tree. Our interruption was in the form of Stephanie. She came along two weeks before her due date, and while we were thrilled with her arrival, some things just didn’t get done. Like cutting down that apple tree.
On the day of her birth, Stephanie arrived in the world with all the usual baby fanfare. After visits by the relatives and after Ruth was somewhat settled at the hospital, it was evening and I headed home to get some rest. With Christopher tucked into bed and with my adrenaline finally slowing down, I fell into bed exhausted. It was just past midnight, which made it September 5. As my mind wandered over the events of the past few hours, I silently prayed a thank-you prayer for our new little gift. In the dark silence of the bedroom, I heard the whisper of leaves outside the window, and then a solitary thump broke the quiet night air. It was the sound of a single apple falling from the tree outside our bedroom. A single gift coming down to earth from up above.
You see, that year our apple tree did bear fruit. It had more apples than we could have ever imagined. But even if it didn’t have apples, I guess I just didn’t have the heart to cut it down anymore. I wondered if maybe, just maybe, Stephanie might like the apples from her tree.
Your word, Lord, is eternal; it stands firm in the heavens. Your faithfulness continues through all generations; You established the earth, and it endures. Psalm 119: 89-90