The snow crunches under our feet as we traipse out to the van. I tell him it’s slickery and he should watch his step. He laughs his response, “Mom, that’s not even a word!” Then his nimble fingers slip lightly into my own. Just in case.
I snap carseat buckles and crank the heat up high. They settle in for the ride, hands full of matchbox cars and still sticky from peanut butter sandwiches. I can barely feel mine on the steering wheel. Numb.
It’s a few miles down the road before I notice suspicious quiet from the backseat. I glance around and they’re watching out the window. One looks back at me, quick to smile and ready to respond. The other is very far away. I can see it in his eyes.
“Whatcha looking at, buddy?” I ask.
He might be struggling to pull himself back to this reality, I can’t tell, but he hesitates a moment before he answers.
“Mom,” his voice finally comes, “do you see the trees?”
I follow his gaze and glimpse their bare branches. Snow perches on the boughs, trunks and limbs. Some lay still and broken along the ground, but many withstand winter’s pressure. They are the strong and silent type.
As if he could read my thoughts, he pipes up from the backseat, “Can trees talk?”
The innocence sparkles in his eyes and I don’t take for granted that he asked me. I love, in fact, that he asked me. Because where does the self-consciousness come from that we know in our latter years? The kind that would interrupt and silence such questions before they could be uttered? The kind that we all know which whispers in our child-like ears, “Everybody already knows that. Don’t ask such a ridiculous question.” That strike us all dumb with fear that certainly everyone got the memo about this but me …!
But I want no part in the development of such hindering. And so I meet his eyes with the warmest welcome I can muster. “I think they do tell us things, Jeremiah. But not with words we can hear. Like right now. Look at the trees. They are bare. What does that tell us … ? That it’s winter! And in a few months, they will pop with buds in bright green – then we’ll know that it’s spring. They tell us things in the summer and in the fall, too, don’t they? But none of them are with words.”
A brief light passes over his face. I recognize it immediately: wonder.
And in the same second I am painfully aware of those who might begrudge my explanation – in fact, many of them take up residence in my own head. They remind me that creation is groaning, and trees none the less, under the weight of a fallen world and is it responsible in the least to tell anything but this to my wide-eyed son? Shouldn’t I prepare him instead for the heartache that faces reality? Shouldn’t a mother brace her son for the flat, colorless world where cold, hard facts trump imagination and what might be is never as reliable as proof in the pudding?
We ride on in silence, both of us swimming in our own thoughts. I imagine what is behind his eyes: a world of enchantments and magic. An unexpected world where light could burst forth at any moment from the snow or through our very skin – and equally as likely. I want to stay in this world with my four-year-old. This world hedged in by creativity and the audacious belief that anything is possible. A world where even the faintest nuance of wind bears witness to the Divine. Where trees carry messages of deep healing. A world where curiosity is safe and questions don’t get you laughed at, where those who know share a wink and a smile because nothing is as nailed down as everyone else seems to believe it is.
Could it be that this is not a disregard of the hard edges of truth we know so well as we get older, but perhaps it is what childhood is for? Could it be that this is the best and bravest preparation for what lies ahead? Not because it is antithetical, but because it is beyond. Beyond that which is seen.
I glance behind me, wistful around the smile. His long eyelashes blink slow, sleep beginning to overtake. I turn back to the trees in their splendor. They lift up their arms in a blessing. They shimmer in the hint of crystalized sunbeam, trembling with more than frost. And their beauty is deep shalom in my bones. Yes. I choose to stay here. I want to whirl in the perhaps, I want to drink what if to the dregs.
And I want to keep my ears open. You never know when the trees might give up their groaning and sing.
“Be soft. Do not let the world make you hard. Do not let pain make you hate. Do not let the bitterness steal your sweetness. Take pride that even though the rest of the world may disagree, you still believe it to be a beautiful and a magical place.”
Vonnegut (italicized words mine)
- What Winter Trees Know About Singing - January 25, 2021
Beautiful, Kelli! So thankful I linked up next to you over at Playdates. You certainly have a way with words. Thanks for this lovely piece. Blessings.
I appreciate your kind words, Sharita. Blessings.
Love it! Thanks
http://kostbaar.blogspot.nl/
Thanks, friend.
what a gift.
You bless me by your presence here, Abby.
Your words and heart made me think of this hymn….
1. This is my Father’s world,
and to my listening ears
all nature sings, and round me rings
the music of the spheres.
This is my Father’s world:
I rest me in the thought
of rocks and trees, of skies and seas;
his hand the wonders wrought.
2. This is my Father’s world,
the birds their carols raise,
the morning light, the lily white,
declare their maker’s praise.
This is my Father’s world:
he shines in all that’s fair;
in the rustling grass I hear him pass;
he speaks to me everywhere.
3. This is my Father’s world.
O let me ne’er forget
that though the wrong seems oft so strong,
God is the ruler yet.
This is my Father’s world:
why should my heart be sad?
The Lord is King; let the heavens ring!
God reigns; let the earth be glad!
Yes, Ro. exactly this.
Thanks for adding your thoughts here, friend.
Oh Kelli. You’re speaking my language, love. I told my husband the other day, I feel trees know more than we think. That they carry stories inside them, silent to our ears… and part of me felt silly, self-conscious admitting this. But a bigger part of me reveled in the little remnant of childlike imagination that this sparked in me. I love how you answered him in this moment, and all your deep-seeing reflections.
Little remnant??? Girl, your imagination is something to be envied.
Thanks for your thoughtful words, Amber.
I think, Kelli, this is an example of exactly what we should be doing – our children see wonder – we have to choose it… Beautiful.
They always make the best teachers, don’t they, Janet?
Thanks for reading along.
This is so very beautiful and so very true. It is through pieces such as this that we catch glimpses of true worship and the praise that sounds ’round us deeper than we know. Perhaps, if we stood still and silent in the enveloping presence of God more often, we might hear more of creation’s songs. Or perhaps we shall have to wait upon the Kingdom Come to begin to grasp these glorious melodies of praise. Yes, let us watch and wonder and wait. Let us “drink what if to the dregs.”
What a beautiful comment, Hannah. Thanks for it.
Oh, yes! How I have loved (and now MISS) the wonder of childhood. But thank you for bringing it back to my attention (and my imagination!) It is beautiful to be in that world again, however briefly. 🙂
I just keep following the path before me … And ending up at wonder’s doorstep. Kinda nice to be led, yes?
Thanks, Mom.
*love*. Oh, Kelli, you’ve done it to me again! To gather these moments and keep them close always … then we would always be able to hear the trees sing.
Bless you, Laura. Your influence on me has been greater than you know.
Oh, I love this! You are a friend, Kelli, that gives me permission to ask the what some call ‘silly’ questions without shame. Isn’t there a child in all of us that needs to look in awe and wonder? That wants to imagine beyond what’s seen and see beyond. There’s so much more than what our eyes see and God gives us glimpses to keep our hope alive .
Yes, He does. Thank you, dear Paula, for letting the child inside you lead the way. Sometimes it’s easy to get lost when we don’t. Love you, friend.
whispering a hushed “yes”
Bless you, Karin, for you have eyes that see.
And the oaks clapped their hands as the elms bowed their branches, and they all began to dance in sweet accord. The wind whistling through the pine grove. Everything that has breath praise the Lord! Yes, Jeremiah, “the trees talk.” <3
Amen and amen. Well said, Kelly Greer.
Kelli, thank you. I sighed deep and smiled after reading this. Thank you, thank you.
Well, I’d say a deep sigh and a big smile are good results indeed. Thank you for reading.
Later he might read Martin Buber’s “I and Thou.”
Or listen to the Smothers Brothers: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4LEfWjHCPVY
Anyway, I enjoyed your reflection, Kelli!