“How about this one?” He slid out his axe.
She shook her
head. “No, I don’t think so, daddy.”
“Why not? It’s
perfect. Seven foot blue spruce, straight and full.”
She looked up at
the tree and shook her head. “It’s not the right one daddy.”
She tromped away.
Little pink boots left footprints in the snow.
He watched her
tug her plastic sled over a fallen branch, looked at the spruce one more time,
slid his axe back into its sheath and let out a sigh. “Okay, but you won’t find
a more perfect tree.”
She stopped dead
in her tracks. Her mitten opened and dropped the rope attached to the sled. She
turned around and put her hands on her hips. “Daddy, we’re not looking for the
perfect tree.” She shook her head and held her hands out to her side. “We’re
looking for the right tree.”
He pulled in a
breath and pointed at the seven footer, “But this—”
“There it is!”
She ran three steps, turned around, ran back, picked up the rope and jerked her
sled off toward a scrawny tilting evergreen about five foot tall.
By the tracks in
the snow it was obvious that the tree had been hit by a snowmobile. It was
broke at the trunk. On one side the branches were smashed and twisted.
She raised both
hands in the air. “Daddy look! This is the one!”
“Oh honey...this
tree's b—”
“Beautiful! I
know! I told you we’d find the right one.”
He shook his
head. “This tree’s been hit. It’s already starting to lose its needles. It
won't even last through Christmas.”
“It’s perfect.”
“Perfect?” He
pointed back toward the seven foot spruce. “That's perfect.”
She shook her
head and put her hands on her hips, again. This time she stomped one of those
little pink boots. “We need each other. It’s
perfect, better than perfect...it’s right.”
She shook her
head again and turned around and looked at the wounded tree. “Yep, that’s the
one.” She nodded and smiled.
That tree made it
through Christmas.
As a matter of
fact, after sitting in water through Christmas and a hundred and one conversations with
a little girl, it was planted on the south side of the barn where the exhaust
vents kept the ground soft all year long. In the spring, it started to grow. To
this day it shades the south side of the barn and that was over fifteen years
ago.
That little girl?
She’s twenty two. Married with two kids; one boy, one girl.
Just the other
day she sat with her dad on the front porch at the farm.
“Dad…” She pulled
in a deep breath and let it out real slow. “Dad, how'd my life get so messed
up?”
He looked at her,
lifted a little smile and waited.
“I had everything
planned so perfect, but now...” She shook her head. “Now, when
I look at him, I don’t feel a thing. I can't laugh or cry or smile I'm numb. Why is life so hard?”
“Come on, I want
to show you something.”
She followed her
father.
He leaned against
the south wall of the old red barn. “Listen.”
She waited and
then shrugged. “What?”
He held a finger
up to his lips.
They waited. Listened.
Coo-ah, coo, coo, coo…
He looked near
the top of a twenty-five foot blue spruce.
She followed his
gaze.
There perched on
a bent and twisted limb sat a pair of mourning doves.
“They mate for
life” he whispered.
She bit her lip.
“The male only
has one foot. He can’t fly straight…or far.”
Her mouth dropped
open “How’d that happ—”
“I hit him with
the tractor a few years back. Didn’t think he’d make it, let alone find a mate.
He couldn’t fly circles or dance the mating ritual like they’re supposed to do…”
They listened to
the mournful call.
“Look close at the
female. She's the smaller one on the left…she’s only got one eye.”
“What? No.” She made
a sad little sigh.
“I figure she
must’ve tangled with a kid and a BB gun.”
"She can
barely see and he can hardly fly." He looked at his daughter. “They need
each other.”
She swallowed hard. Looked at the tree, the crooked twisted limb, the less than perfect pair. She blinked and spilled one bottled up tear...and then another. Her pretty chin quivered. She smiled, then laughed and then she cried. “It’s perfect,
better than perfect...it’s right.”
~
Love like the perfect Christmas tree.
It grows quiet, and soft, and slow.
Not with the flash spark and speed of a manufactured tree.
It’s messy
It sheds needles, bares branches. The needles, once soft and
supple, bright and green, dry out, loose their color, turn hard, brittle and
prickly.
It weeps.
It’s sappy and sticky and it just won’t leave.
It’s true.
It stands naked, broken, wounded, unadorned…unashamed.
Love comes softly
It grows soft, and quiet, and slow
Birthed from The Perfect Seed in a manger...
Love is better than perfect...it's right.
Merry Christmas,
Doug
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