I grew up in an older neighborhood in Brooklyn Park. Our house had huge oak trees in a yard that, to an 8-year-old, seemed to go on forever. So big, that even the older kids couldn’t hit a softball all the way to the neighbor’s yard. I remember laying on my back in the middle of the yard and looking up at the canopy. High above my head I imagined trapeze artists, flipping from one branch to another. In the fall, the trees would shed their browned leaves leaving hours of raking for my parents, but moments of magic for my sister and I as we jumped in the piles of leaves. I learned the trees were over 100 years old and they seemed indestructible even through yearly Minnesota storms.
In fifth grade we moved to a developing neighborhood with newly planted trees, most of which were not much taller than me. We traded in our rakes for a lawn mower that simply mulched up the handful of stray leaves each year. I liked our new house and our new neighborhood, but I missed the yard and trees of our first home.
Shortly after moving I was riding in the car with my now dearly departed Grandma who at the time was pushing 80. Seeing landscapers planting saplings on the side of the road I sighed dramatically, “All of these trees are so small! I liked the big trees at the old house…” Dismissive she said, “they will grow, just like the old ones. They started out small, too.” I rolled my eyes.
As we turned onto the parkway outside our development and grandma spoke again. “See, just look at these trees along the park way. See how they line the road? When they grow up it will be real pretty as they arch over the road here. Just you see.”
“How long will that take?”
“Oh, 25-30 years maybe?”
“TWENTY-FIVE YEARS?!?!?! I won’t even be living here anymore! What is the point?”
“It will happen quicker than you know…just wait.”
Another eye-roll.
Last summer, almost exactly 25 years later and this story long out of my conscious memory, I turned onto that parkway to drive to my parent’s house. Out of the blue I was struck by how pretty the trees were that lined the sides of the road and the green canopy over my head. If felt like driving through a tunnel of trees. The drive with Grandma, who died 10 years ago at the age of 90, jumped back into my memory. She was right! She wasn’t around to see it, but she was right. All it took was dozens of saplings, a mile of parkway and 25 years of patience.
Every time I drive down that parkway I smile at the cleverness of my Grandmother’s wisdom, hope and the trust she had that God would continue to grow the trees long after she was gone. (But then roll my eyes for good measure. I wouldn’t want Grandma to have the satisfaction of an “I told you so.”)
I told this story of driving with Grandma recently in a staff meeting regarding a scripture we read together. Pastor Maria followed it up with a story she had heard a few years ago about an old man who was planting fruit trees.
A young man approached him and asked, “Why would you plant trees when you won’t be around to eat the fruit?”
The old man replied, “I have spent my whole life eating fruit from trees that others have planted. Now it is time for me to plant trees so others can eat.”
Pastor Maria didn’t remember where this story came from, so I did some research. A version of this story can be found in many different cultures, from mango trees in southeast Asia to children’s books in France and Jewish tales of fig and carob trees. There is an ancient Greek Proverb that says, “Society grows great when old men plant trees in whose shade they know they shall never sit.” I found Christian children’s sermons and Islamic parables. So, either we don’t know the real origins of this story, or this nugget of wisdom has been learned across all cultures by the elderly and they are eager to pass it on to unsuspecting youth, only to be met by an eyeroll.
This winter feels like we are headed for a fruitless harvest. The expectations of last year were canceled and the future is too uncertain for any meaningful planning. I’m surrounded by the disappointment of weak saplings when all I want is to sit in the cool shade of a mature oak tree. I am, to say the least, not motivated to put in the work of planting seeds.
For me, (and for many) 2020 didn’t feel like a year of growth. It felt like a year of drought (and sometimes, doubt). Advent is about waiting, but this year I’m banking on trust. And maybe a little hope. I need to trust more than ever that when I cast the small handful of seeds I have left into the wind, that they will land where the spirit sends them. I hope that the seeds thrown by others will find their way to me and into my heart this Christmas season.
Besides, I’m not counting the harvest of 2020 out quite yet; the trees I drive past on the way to my parent’s house weren’t planted this year. Twenty-five years ago, those saplings had no idea of the lesson they were growing for me, today.
May you spend this advent season finding ways to plant trees for others, trusting that God will do good with what you can give, and embrace “the thrill of hope” as our “weary world rejoices” this Christmas season.
May you be well,
Kristi Larson
Director of Youth and Family Ministries
