Tree Memories

The Spring days are growing warmer, school children are wrapping up the final events of the academic year, and my thoughts are turning toward summer. I decided to reprint a blog I posted quite some time ago on my previous website. If you were a tomboy as I was, you might have enjoyed tree-climbing, and this topic might resonate with you.

As a child I never consciously thought much about trees. Not being a budding arborist (okay, it was a lousy pun!), I grew up taking our few trees for granted in spite of the fact that I lived in a flat, practically tree-less part of the state of Texas.

However, I do find it interesting that so many of my childhood memories revolve around trees. Until I was about five, we had a row of two or three large elm trees west of our house. My swings and sand pile were under those trees so I spent most of my time playing underneath them in a shaded world of make-believe. My older sister and her friend Vondell climbed our trees, mostly I think to get away from me. At least, they did until they came eyeball to eyeball with a praying mantis, and I think that brought their tree-climbing practices to a screeching halt. But I was too little for tree-climbing, and I don’t remember experiencing that particular adventure until after our elms were taken down.

By that time, the Stapletons had purchased the house across the street from mine and they not only had a playmate my age, but they had TREES! There were three satisfactory elm trees in a row lining their driveway. The one nearest to the garage was just exactly the right size and shape for climbing, and it wasn’t long before Jeanne and I were retreating up into its leafy hideaway. There, we sometimes escaped from her younger sister, just as my sister and her friends had hidden from me. But we usually included the little one ~ Jeanne’s mom made us.

It was a retreat where we found respite from the summer heat, where we dreamed dreams about what we wanted to be when we grew up (I’m still searching that one out!). We made plans, shared whispered secrets, and observed the neighborhood from our safe perch. Occasionally we discovered we were sharing our tree house with insects and critters, and we had our share of skinned knees from climbing up and down on the rough bark. But it was mostly a comfortable place to while away the summer hours.

One memorable summer, we decided to host a talent show (comprised of the much-sought-after talents of Jeanne, Joanne, and Judy). We had visions of selling tickets to our entire neighborhood and making a “bunch” of money. Billing ourselves as “The Three J’s” (a cleverly unique name that should have rivaled the Supremes) we prepared for opening night. Carefully, we hand-printed tickets and programs. Each of the three of us practiced the acts we would perform to dazzle our audience. We contracted with Jeanne’s mom to provide refreshments. On the night of the big performance, we placed a row of folding chairs just west of the big tree. Pushed up against the tree, facing the chairs, we positioned a long wooden table that was to be our stage.

The plan was that we would climb up the tree on the opposite side, and when it was our turn to perform, we would come out of the tree onto the stage and wow any talent scouts that might be lurking on the lawn. (We figured after this debut, we would definitely be asked to appear on the Ed Sullivan show!)

As I recall, the audience consisted of the Stapletons, my parents, both our grandmothers, and one gullible neighbor who couldn’t find a good excuse not to come. We Three J’s performed our little hearts out, amid thundering applause. It was a heady experience.

What good times we had! Television sets and Nintendo games were no comparison with our active imaginations.

There was another significant tree in our neighborhood. It grew across the street from the Methodist Parsonage, right next to the road. The Y of the tree was low enough to the ground that we kids could easily reach it. There was a hollowed out place that was a perfect spot for leaving messages or hiding things. Some super sleuths from Petersburg Elementary spent their summers stealthily passing secret messages to one another through the hidden hollow in that tree.

I can also remember picking up pecans under my Uncle Clyde’s towering pecan trees down the street. My Grandmother, Blanche Martin, also had a large pecan tree in her yard on Main Street. I remember having picnics in her yard underneath the shade of that tree, which my dad told me was the first pecan tree planted in Petersburg (he had planted it himself as a boy.)

Now that I have moved back to Petersburg some fifty years since the Three Js had their opening night, I am once again enthralled with my trees. I have two large pecan trees that my Dad nurtured for many years. And I love to hear the West Texas wind sighing through the pine tree in my front yard. Okay, so we don’t have many trees around here. But ah, the joy of the ones we do have!

So what are YOUR memories of trees?

copyright 2007, Judy Martin Bowyer

No More Piggybacks

Remember as a kid when you played with your friends and gave each other piggyback rides? Of course, it always helped to play with a friend who was bigger than you so they would be the ones doing the carrying!

I was reminded of this recently as I read about King Hezekiah and his gratitude for what the Lord was doing for him. In Isaiah 38:19, it reads, “Each generation can make known your faithfulness to the next.” When I read that, I wrote the following in my journal: “I desperately want to pass along a legacy of faith to future generations. My children have to develop their own walk of faith and not piggyback on mine. While I want them to know what the Lord has done for me and see His hand in all our lives up to this point, they have to write their own faith narrative. God was working in our family for an unknown number of generations, building a history of belief in all of us, and I marvel at how blessed I am to now have my own legacy of faith.”

It’s true; I have a substantial amount of genealogical information about my family, and as far back as we know, we are a people of faith.  But my children can’t inherit their faith in the same way they claim the family’s brown eyes or short stature. They have to find their own way. 

The bottom line is this: I can accept Isaiah’s charge to make sure my children know about God’s faithfulness in my life. I can do my part to tell them the stories of ways He has guided me, answered my prayers, provided for me. And I can pass along the tales I heard my parents and grandparents tell about God’s faithfulness, passing the baton to the next generation.

Copyright © 2012

Holding Hands

Who can ever understand the way our minds hold onto seemingly small things and turn them into long-term memories? I recently recalled an incident when I was probably three or four, but the image is still vivid today.

My family had driven to church, and I was walking through the doors of the church beside my daddy, holding his large hand with my tiny one. Maybe he stopped to open the church door ~ I don’t know why we unclasped hands. But I was still beside him, so I felt secure in his presence, even though I wasn’t physically connected to him. We continued down the hall, and from my vantage point, the view consisted mostly of other people’s knees! I was just following the flow of traffic, walking beside my daddy. I didn’t have to know where I was going because Daddy knew the way, and I was with him.

As the flow of people increased, so did my anxiety, so I reached up and grabbed Daddy’s hand for security. I was happy in my own little world until I happened to look up into Daddy’s face, and it was the face of another man from our church! I let go of his hand and panicked, looking everywhere for the face that was most familiar to me, the one I knew I trusted. This man wasn’t unsafe or bad ~ he just wasn’t my daddy!

Fortunately, Daddy was nearby, and I ran over and grabbed his hand and continued down the hall, heart pounding, feeling safe once more.

So I ask you: why would my four-year-old brain remember that small incident that probably only lasted for five minutes of my life? Perhaps it lodged in my mind because it illustrates some key principles.

We all need security; everyone is grasping for something to hold onto that makes them feel safe and connected. And there are lots of choices: people, money, possessions, jobs and careers, our children, our church, an educational degree, investments . . . the list goes on to include things that many find comforting. What gives you that sense of security you long for?

Challenge question: ask yourself if the thing or person you cling to for security has the ability to keep you safe.

The little girl I described had grabbed onto something nearby that she thought was safe. But she didn’t look above her normal eye level to confirm the source of her security. Once she looked into the eyes of her protector, she saw a stranger ~ not the daddy who loved her.

Make sure you hold hands with the One who can keep you safe . . . who knows and loves you . . . who knows the Way even when you don’t. If you can’t find Him, ask me and I’ll take you to Him.

The Fear of Man

“The fear of man is a snare, but the one who trusts in the Lord is protected.”

(Proverbs 29:25)

This verse in Proverbs describes many of us to perfection. When we spend our time and energy worrying about what others think of us, or being afraid of offending someone, it can definitely become a snare. True, we may have legitimate concerns about being offensive to someone; it is not wrong to be careful how we treat others. But most of us take it too far, and instead of just being circumspect or sensitive to others, we obsess about how people view us.

I have been reminded of this “fear of man” several times over the last few days in random conversations with other people.

“She asked me what I thought, and I was afraid to tell her the truth.”

“They dropped in unexpectedly, and I was so embarrassed at how the house looked.”

“She asked me if I was offended at what she said, but I felt awkward to tell her yes, it bothered me.”

“I hated to admit to him that I didn’t keep my yard looking as nice as his, so I pretended I was a lawn-mowing freak too!”

“She was horrified that anyone would let their child do that, so I pretended it bothered me, too.”

Responding in love to someone else is always appropriate. But I want to learn to recognize the difference between placating and dishonesty. The fear of man described in Proverbs speaks to the fear that causes us to be too concerned over what others think, a fear that can control our lives. Rightfully, it is called a “snare” for a reason. A person or animal caught in a trap has lost their freedom. There is pain, discomfort, no freedom of movement, no sense of security.

I want to learn how to live, walk, and talk with honesty and integrity, not afraid of what others think, but able to express myself with tact and humility.