Rebecca Carpenter

            “Girls, pick out your books and bring them here.  We have to hurry since it is your bedtime,” I said to my young granddaughters.

            Ashlyn brought a long book but assured me that I only had to read one chapter.  Emily ran into Ashlyn’s room and brought back one of Ashlyn’s library books.

            “I can read that to you,” Ashlyn said confidently.

            “No, I want Grandma to read it,” Emily proclaimed.

            Oh, dear. I wanted to hear Ashlyn read, but it was Emily’s selection.

            Ashlyn quickly offered a solution.  “Grandma can read it first.  Then I’ll read it, and you can leave.”

            “Ok,” Emily said brightly.

            I had not expected such a quick or peaceful solution.

            Both girls perched on Emily’s bed with me while I read Ashlyn’s choice.  After that, I read about a little boy in a wheelchair which Emily had chosen.  When the book was finished, Emily immediately ran from the room. 

            Ashlyn started reading like a teacher in front of her class.  She read with expression and held up the book to show me the pages as she finished each one.  “He can laugh too,” she read about the little boy who sat smiling in his wheelchair.

            “Hee, hee, hee,” came from the other room. 

            Ashlyn and I smiled at each other as she continued to read.  After every page, we heard an echo from Emily—mimicking each word.  She also added sighs and other sounds.  We struggled to keep from laughing out loud.  Ashlyn lowered her voice to a whisper, but Emily still repeated the words.  When the book was finished, Emily returned to her bed happy and ready to go to sleep.

             Stubbornness had prevented her from enjoying the book with us because she did not want to openly admit she had changed her mind.  She took part from afar but was not  fully involved.

            Perhaps we also do the same thing at times.  We make a hasty, adamant decision or statement that we later regret, but our stubbornness prevents us from admitting it.  We want to change our decision, say we are sorry, or offer forgiveness, but our inflexible nature gets in the way.  The valuable lessons we learn from children.

          A cypress towered above the other trees in my yard.  Its slightly curving, thin trunk narrowed toward the top where a quartet of limbs jutted out in four directions.  Several bare branches, silhouetted against the light gray sky, seemed out of place amid the leafy green.  Three large limbs spread out just below the top like welcoming arms but  with an open area on one side.  Draped over the branches and swaying in the breeze gray Spanish moss decorated the tree. 

            Even though the cypress was asymmetrical and misshapen, it possessed a certain stately magnificence.  Because of was so lofty, I knew it had endured years of inclement weather—hot, cold, drought, rain, and wind.  It had been affected by the weather conditions which had produced its strange shape.  That appearance had not prevented it from being a refuge for a variety of wildlife.

            On the side with the missing limbs, a neighboring palm tree stood at the exact height where they should have been.  Instead of leafy branches, the palm tree just fit under the open arms as the cypress shielded and protected it.  For years while they stood rooted in the forest, the totally different trees had stood side by side—nurturing and protecting each other.  

            The cypress had given up its limbs for the palm while the palm shielded that side of the cypress from wind, sun, and rain.  As parents we willingly give up part of ourselves in order to nurture and protect our children.  Over time, couples learn to fit together as they face joys and trials of life.  Friends reach out and pull each other close during times of need.  As Christians we are to find those who are hurting and to serve.  That humble yet stately tree was also a symbol to me of God with open arms—welcoming and waiting—for us to nestle in His embrace.