The Nursery Tree Effect

 I’ve invited a guest-blogger this week. Gary Fawver and I have several things in common: we’re both residents of this retirement community, we both participate in the same writers group (one that has been ongoing for about 15 years), we both love green things, and we’re both experiencing the challenge of growing older.

Twice Gary has been asked to give a talk to residents here about trees, once in 1979 and again in 2016. In 1979, Gary was 41 years old and the director of Tilikum, a camp in the Pacific Northwest. By 2016 he and his wife Susan had become residents of this community.  Thirty -seven years separate those talks! Gary recently let me read his notes. I have his permission to share them with you in this blog. Here is the essence of what he said.

June 1979

Something a visitor to Tilikum becomes immediately aware of are the trees—both those growing naturally and the cultivated fruit trees. Trees are everywhere. They come in different kinds, shapes, and sizes, yet they are all trees. A unique creation from the hand of God.

The Scriptures are full of trees, from the lovely green tree planted by streams of water (Psalm 1, Jeremiah 17:7-8), to the picture of the Christian as a branch clinging to the Vine of Christ and bearing fruit (John 15), and the description of a believer as one who is rooted in Jesus (Colossians 2:6-7). Trees provide a metaphor of human development and the process of maturity, both spiritually and physically.

There are three particular mature (old growth) trees at Tilikum that I’d like to tell you about: White Oak, Douglas Fir, and Big Leaf Maple. They are 300-500 years old. If they could talk, what stories they would tell of all the things they’ve seen and heard! Once they were young and impressionable, easily bent. Other trees came and went, but these grew strong and tall. As they grew, they bore their seeds and parented many young trees of their kind, providing shade from the hot summer sun. Animals and birds found refuge, comfort and nourishment in their limbs and in the protection of their trunks. Hard times—fires, storms, disease—took their toll on them and on other trees, yet these three survived.

You here at Friendsview are in my story of these trees. You are like trees in an old growth forest, with some of the same characteristics, challenges, and splendor of my old tree friends. And yet, in God’s timing, those trees must fall in death. One such giant fell yesterday. Her name was Marie Haines.

March 30, 2016

My talk at Friendsview was 37 years ago. Who would have thought that Susan and I would be residents in 2016! Yet here we are.

Since that message in 1979, the Big Leaf Maple tree has fallen. It was my favorite. Of the three trees, it was the most child friendly. One could climb into it easily, or several campers could crouch into a natural impression at its base to stay out of the rain. At various times there were swinging ropes and platforms placed in its branches. In its hollow trunk was a honeybee hive. We could put a stethoscope against the bark and hear the hum of all the bee wings.

We old folks are similar to trees, you know—trees living in an old growth forest community. We are all unique creations of God—incredibly different from each other and yet humans, all of us. We can tell lots of stories about what we have seen, heard, and done. Some of us have parented young trees after our kind. And, as with the trees, there have been hard times—accidents and illnesses that may have left us scarred. Personal or family tragedies that left irreparable damage.

There’s more. A recent trip through an old growth got me thinking about what are called “nursery trees”(also called “nurse logs”). When an ancient tree falls, seeds germinate, take root, and grow out of the body of that tree, using its nutrients. Even in its death, the tree continues nourishing the life of the forest.

Perhaps this can be one of the greatest prayers of those of us who reside in this retirement community, a prayer that we be productive nursery trees in our death as well as in our living.

It’s obvious how many of us throughout our lives have given refuge, comfort, nourishment, security, and care to those who have been nearest us—our spouse, children, friends and through our jobs as teachers, counselors, ministers, entrepreneurs, and so on. But only in our death and the years that follow will our real contribution as a nursery tree be recognized.

Missionary doctor and author Paul Brand wrote this after showing his children and grandchildren the nursery trees of the Olympic National Forest: “My active life is mostly behind me. Soon I will no longer occupy this earthly home. But I pray that my life and the principles God has helped me to live by will continue to influence young lives. When we die, we do not only leave seed; we also leave an effect on the soil in which future children will grow and future spiritual seed will be nourished.”

We see what I call the Nursery Tree Effect in many folks who have left our community, even since I spoke here 37 years ago. I think we see that Marie Haines’ legacy has been carried out in her daughter Ellen Martin.

And so I, Gary Fawver, continue to ask myself: How am I shaping and giving nourishment to the new generations of “great trees”? What effect am I leaving on the soil in which my family and friends will be nourished? What principles is God helping me live by, principles that will continue to influence young lives long after I’m gone?

Hear what the prophet says: “Blessed is the person who trusts in the Lord, whose confidence is in him. He will be like a tree planted by the water that sends out its roots by the stream. It does not fear when heat comes, its leaves are always green. It has no worries in a year of drought and never fails to bear fruit.” (Jeremiah 17:7-8)

The biblical town with the nasty name: a childhood memory

 One of the results of aging is that I no longer multitask, that quintessential American activity. When I try, I get all tangled up. Not good.

But I can still pull a two-fer. Or a three-fer, for that matter. That means that while I can do only One Thing at a time, I can use that Thing for different purposes.

This morning my One Thing was to write a poem. But look at all the stuff I’m doing with it:

--I’m writing down and processing a childhood memory. That’s one of the tasks and privileges of those of us in our latter years. Writing down (or recording, or telling the kids) our memories helps us be grateful, work through and heal past traumas, begin to see the pattern in it all, and pass on a legacy to the next generation.

--I’m being faithful to my intention to include writing a poem in my morning time of reading and reflection.

--I’m continuing with my project of praying and writing my way through the Scriptures.

--I’m playing with words, always a good thing to do.

--I’m posting it in this blog, another commitment.

So I guess I’ve actually pulled a fiver, and it’s not even noon. Goody for me.

Here’s the One Thing. If the title of the poem offends you, ignore your reaction and just read it anyway.

Shittim
Joshua 2:1

I remember an adolescent Bible study
when my turn came and the portion
I was to read included
the town of Shittim. I stopped short
of the name. I couldn’t read it out loud.
The other kids giggled. The leader,
a no-nonsense grown-up, made me
continue and I somehow mumbled
my way forward. Later I learned
that Shittim meant acacia, that the town
in northern Israel was probably
nestled in an acacia grove.
A tall acacia tree stood in the front
yard of the house where I grew up
and I used to climb it. My secret place
was hidden in the upper branches
where I could peek through the leaves
across Wilson Road and see the far hills.
I loved that tree
without even knowing
its name.

The memory of my squeamish adolescent reaction to the name of that biblical town makes me laugh. But the mental picture of that acacia tree makes me grateful. The memory is showing me that a hiding place can sometimes be a place of greater seeing. And it reminds me of how important trees have been in my life.

And still are. I think I’ll go outside and take a walk.

The trees help

Our retirement community has an asset in being located above Hess Creek Canyon. A trail leads from the central building down to and around the canyon. It’s not a long trail, perhaps close to a quarter mile as it circles the creek, a bridge on both the north and south ends. Oregon trees, both evergreen and deciduous, line the creek and border the trail. Numerous beasts—squirrels, birds, deer, and, at one point, beavers—graze the meadows, scamper and chase each other, or sing from the tree tops. It’s a place of refuge for humans as well as animals. Old humans and beasts of all ages.

Sometimes I walk briskly, for exercise. Other times I meander and meditate. (The latter is, frankly, my favorite.) At all times it’s become a place I love.

I’ve also made it a habit to do prayer walks on our trail. These are slow walks with frequent stops. I’ve developed a pattern, using different “stations” along the trail to pray for certain things.

I took a prayer walk this morning. As I approached the trail I attended to the presence of God. I asked Jesus to teach me to pray. I prepared my spirit.

Here’s my pattern. At the first station, the bench on the path heading to the north bridge, I stop to pray for my family, naming my son and daughter and their spouses, speaking the needs of each grandchild, then opening the eyes of my heart to any extended family member. I spent special time this morning praying for our nephew Josh whose cancer appears to be fatal.

The second station is the north bridge, a lovely spot right over the creek as it gurgles and sparkles below me. There I pray for people in this retirement community—residents, staff administration, and board members. This morning I lifted up my friend who has just lost her husband, and another friend in the health center who is approaching the end of life. These are both experiences I’ve not had (yet), so in addition to praying for my friends, I asked God for wisdom as I accompany them.

At the third station I sit on the bench beyond the bridge and around the bend to pray for the church, for the members of my Sunday school class in particular, and for unity among the congregations in the larger community. At the fourth station, another bench, I ask God to bring to mind any people not included in the previous stations. I linger a little longer at the fifth station on the south bridge because my concern there is for the local community, the nation, and the world. Yes, that’s altogether too much to pray for at once. So I pray about any matter that swims to the top of my mind. Then I walk back up the hill to the trail head, praising and thanking God for his sovereignty and goodness.

I have another prayer walk pattern that focuses on the nation and the world, and even then the trail’s not long enough. In another pattern I lift up my personal needs and dreams; that walk’s about renewal.

I hesitate to post this because it almost sounds like I’m a super-spiritual prayer guru. I’m not. One of the reasons I take these walks, other than my need to connect with trees, is that prayer has been so hard for me lately. I sit in the chair with good intentions and go to sleep. Or I find myself off in some fantastic day dream. Walking the trail and praying keep me grounded and help me attend to what I’m supposed to be doing. So I do it, not because I’m such a strong prayer warrior or whatever, but because I need help as I try to pray.

The trees help.