The Dead Tree
Stories
Lectionary Tales For The Pulpit
Series III, Cycle C
That tree seemed out of place. It was bare, with a white trunk and branches that bore nothing but brown twigs. The other trees had exploded into a vivid green as spring had come to the prairie. Bright green -- both light and dark -- danced on every appendage of every tree. What was that white tree doing in the middle of it all?
I set my spray paint can by the door. I had used it to paint a toy wagon. It was a bright, cherry red. It would be helpful for me to spray a big "X" on the trunk of the dead tree so that it could be cut down in the fall. Next spring the tree line would be perfect without that ugly, bare tree in its midst.
My son, Andrew, loves to watch the hungry little robins as they hunt for worms. At four, he tries hard to imitate other birds' whistles. At four o'clock in the morning, I don't usually appreciate the birds' energy. But when Andrew tries to imitate them during the day, I do enjoy it. Birds of blue, red, orange, and yellow abound in our trees. Our birdfeeders seem to inhale the bird seed that we purchase in bulk.
I had forgotten the spray paint can by the door for a few days. It wasn't the most important priority on my spring-cleaning list and I knew I would eventually get around to it. The curtains and quilts needed to be washed and hung to dry first. Then the rugs would get their turn. There was much to be done now that the snow had finally melted.
"Mommy, look."
Andrew was outside trying to find worms in our garden spot. He was sitting in the dirt with more than a little spread across his face. "Mommy, look!" I turned to where he pointed. There in the tree, in the stark, white tree, was a nest. Four little heads were poking out. I could see four little beaks chirping away as their mother tried hard to divide the wiggly worm into their mouths. "Look, Mommy, the mommy's feeding the baby birdies."
We walked very quietly to the swing set in the middle of the yard, hoping to catch a better glimpse. A bigger bird was sitting on the branch a little further up the tree. He was squawking and making threatening noises as we eyed the babies in their nests.
"Hey, Mommy, when will they fly? When can they find worms by themselves? When were they born?"
Andrew was fascinated. We had a discussion about birds and finally I suggested we go inside and look at our bird books. I was hoping the bigger bird wouldn't become hoarse after all that screeching!
On the way inside, I passed the spray paint can. I quietly put it back on the top shelf. I would save it for when another wagon needed painting. Right now four little birds needed that tree and next year -- who knows? -- another four birds might need it.
I set my spray paint can by the door. I had used it to paint a toy wagon. It was a bright, cherry red. It would be helpful for me to spray a big "X" on the trunk of the dead tree so that it could be cut down in the fall. Next spring the tree line would be perfect without that ugly, bare tree in its midst.
My son, Andrew, loves to watch the hungry little robins as they hunt for worms. At four, he tries hard to imitate other birds' whistles. At four o'clock in the morning, I don't usually appreciate the birds' energy. But when Andrew tries to imitate them during the day, I do enjoy it. Birds of blue, red, orange, and yellow abound in our trees. Our birdfeeders seem to inhale the bird seed that we purchase in bulk.
I had forgotten the spray paint can by the door for a few days. It wasn't the most important priority on my spring-cleaning list and I knew I would eventually get around to it. The curtains and quilts needed to be washed and hung to dry first. Then the rugs would get their turn. There was much to be done now that the snow had finally melted.
"Mommy, look."
Andrew was outside trying to find worms in our garden spot. He was sitting in the dirt with more than a little spread across his face. "Mommy, look!" I turned to where he pointed. There in the tree, in the stark, white tree, was a nest. Four little heads were poking out. I could see four little beaks chirping away as their mother tried hard to divide the wiggly worm into their mouths. "Look, Mommy, the mommy's feeding the baby birdies."
We walked very quietly to the swing set in the middle of the yard, hoping to catch a better glimpse. A bigger bird was sitting on the branch a little further up the tree. He was squawking and making threatening noises as we eyed the babies in their nests.
"Hey, Mommy, when will they fly? When can they find worms by themselves? When were they born?"
Andrew was fascinated. We had a discussion about birds and finally I suggested we go inside and look at our bird books. I was hoping the bigger bird wouldn't become hoarse after all that screeching!
On the way inside, I passed the spray paint can. I quietly put it back on the top shelf. I would save it for when another wagon needed painting. Right now four little birds needed that tree and next year -- who knows? -- another four birds might need it.
