When a Great Tree Falls

One summer evening, when I was a girl, a bad storm hit our house. We quickly ran through the house closing windows against the rain. The wind whipped and roared, and we gathered in the back room of the house looking across the field at the galloping storm. The electricity blinked off, someone walked into the kitchen, and their shout brought us all running.

Between the house and the barn stood three large maple trees. Or had stood three large maple trees. In the few minutes that we had stood in the back room watching the storm, they had toppled, roots torn from the ground, huge branches now stretched across the lawn. No other damage had been done. Apparently the wind had twisted between the house and barn, laying those three trees neatly between the buildings, not touching the many large trees in the front yard. 

Chain saws roared, hacking the tree branches, forging a path through the debris. Today, over thirty years later, when I read of a war-torn country, such as in Ukraine, I still imagine the view out the kitchen window that day, a landscape transformed by destruction and wreckage. 

My brother now lives on that farm. A new generation is playing in the yard, one that doesn't remember those large maples. Maybe I'm the only one who remembers the way it used to be, the hours spent playing in, and under, and around those maples. Today young saplings are slowly gaining status as shade trees, filling the void left by their ancesors. 

A friend sent me Maya Angelou's poem "When a Great Tree Falls." Because of copyright, I won't share it here, but go to the link and read it. 

Go ahead. I'll wait. 

*****

In May it was five years since Ed's death. I wanted to share something meaningful and profound on such an important milestone. But how do I put into words the last five years of living with grief - five years as a widow and single mom? Besides I was too busy living in May and June. Those months were full of activity, responsibilities, and events - for which I am grateful. Life is full and beautiful and loved.

When Ed died, our children were ages three to fifteen. I didn't know it then, but life propells forward as if on steroids when your oldest is fifteen and her siblings are not far behind. For fifteen years I had a been a homeschool mom, at home with all six of my children nearly every hour of every day. 

Five years later, I barely recognize my life. Not just because I'm now a widow, though that too. But as a mother of six children, now ages eight to twenty, life looks different. Phones, drivers' licenses, and high school diplomas have transformed my oldest children's lives. And mine.

Next week my oldest plans to travel halfway around the world, planning to spend the school year in southeast Asia helping a missionary family. My oldest son works in construction with my brothers, and I occasionally run into his pleased customers who tell me of their new porch or remodeled bathroom. My third child recently graduated from high school and began a job he loves. 

Would Ed recognize our family? 

Our driveway looks like a used car lot with vehicles my husband never drove. They have busy social lives which mean cars pulling out the drive, it seems, any hour of the day or night. 

Five years ago I taught my children their knowledge and skills, but now my older children have skills and knowledge I don't have. My sons repair things that bewilders me, understand tech that confuses me. One daughter crochets adorable animals and another has TESOL certification. They are stronger, taller, smarter than me.

Even I have changed in five years. I've attempted new projects, accepted new tasks, and gained new friends. Some responsibilites were thrust upon me; some were chosen, even pursued. My calendar holds regular events that Ed never attended, my phone has contacts he never knew. My hair is gray, I wear glasses, I drink coffee, and I've become an early riser. 

Would Ed recognize me? 

A great tree fell. It hurts to see young saplings stretching alone into the open air, sky he once filled, wearing shoes his size, doing tasks that were once his. But I'm grateful that "after a period peace blooms" "spaces fill." We will never be the same for Ed "existed," he was planted here, in this place, in our family. He left his inprint, on me, on my children, on our community. 

Five years is long enough to pick up the debris, to replant grass, to stake the saplings that are now buffeted by the winds that took down the great tree. 

Five years is a long time. Long enough to almost forget how it felt to be shaded by a great tree. 

Five years is a short time. So short that sometimes I feel the shadow of the great tree, as if he were still standing tall.

A long time? A short time? I don't know. I don't know many things. Not about living and thriving in grief. Not about parenting teens and young adults. But five years showed me that life is full and beautiful and loved. 

Because God is here. And a great tree once shared our life.

Did you read this far and still not read Maya Angelou's poem? Here is the link again. 

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