A quote: “Our Lord has written the promise of resurrection, not in books alone, but in every leaf in springtime.” ~~ Martin Luther
I’ll start with a story …
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I was barely 11-years-old when I carved the first rune in the tree and now my hair is solid silver.
As I get my bearings and move on to the next marked tree, somewhere out here my youngest great-grandchild is marking her first tree. She is making her own pathway, as generation upon generation has done. Promises made eons ago and still kept.
I finally reach my greats’ ring. I sense their joy-filled greeting. My feet sink into the soil but I pause. The Guardian mantle won’t settle without a witness.
I hear her coming … so soon! Clever child.
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Now, it’s your turn.
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. featured image, cropped, Adobe Stock standard license
Lewis says: My darling son-in-law gently spread the decaying leaves of last fall over my husband’s ashes where I had just dropped my dried yellow rose petals. My darling daughter held my hand as we walked back up the path. So this is the last thing on my journey. We had the memorial, we did the deed today, and now I will return to my empty house.
The promise of resurrection is strong in me, I know my curious man is off on a wonderful adventure. Am I also off on an adventure? Still yet to be discovered, decided, attempted.
Cameron says: I gently cleared the leaves and revealed the face hidden underneath. I smiled at the tree. “Sorry about not doing this sooner.”
From behind me I heard voices raised in anger. Two EPA people had drawn guns and said I was under arrest for vandalizing an ancient tree.
“Boys, I suggest you go somewhere else.”
They moved forward only to stop as the branches of the tree wrapped around them and held them high. The tree glared threateningly.
“And that’s why. Treants are very protective of my family. I suggest you go away if he chooses to set you down.”
When I was little, I was struggling with the concepts of death and rebirth, of bodies and souls. My father took me out in the woods and told me that our bodies are like the leaves of the trees, and our souls are like the trunks and limbs that remain when the leaves that appear each spring and fall at the end of the year.
Today I was walking through that very woods and I could swear I saw a face in the trunk of one of those trees. Intellectually I know it’s pareidolia, like seeing a tiny astonished face in a three-prong outlet — yet I can’t shake the sense of being watched by an old soul awaiting rebirth.
GWB says: Excellent stories, all. 🙂
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