Tree

When I was 6, we lived in a house in town, and we had a gigantic one. A few years ago I went to visit the church that meets there, on the first floor of the building that was our house. And I was quite indignant to see that the tree had been cut down. Like they’d cut down a part of my childhood.There’s a nursery in our living room the grass is long and mostly weeds and I try to see three little children running around. And dad drawing us big pictures on the blackboard and hey! Where’d that go, people?

In the next house, we had a tree with a rope swing. The tree stood on the top of a little hill, so you could grab the rope and really swing. All romantical and real, you know.

The house after that had poplars that we could climb in and since the top was cut of each year, we could stand on the flat part and be hidden by the branches growing above and around it.
And then there was a weeping willow with a swing where I cried and laughed. In the little wood beside it are remnants of the camp we built as children. With dreams still stuck in some of the spiderwebs around it.

In my parent’s last house there are little apple trees that I helped to plant before I got married. And now they are already teenage trees!

I’ve become friends with quite a lot of trees over the years. They are hug-able. Protective. Friendly. They are just there, you know.

Like trees should be.

Kinda like Jesus. Only I’ve never really literally hugged Him. I wonder if we get to do that in heaven.

Linking with Lisajobaker.com for Five Minute Friday. Five minutes of unedited writing on the word ‘tree’.