My Tree is Gone

After an Oklahoma-style hurricane: 96mph winds, straight-line force and no warning; the country paradise where I grew up has been decimated. The roof of the house has been lifted and transported to various sections of the pasture. Outbuildings which protected valuable machinery lie in tatters while the lovely trees are now a brush pile waiting for the farmer’s torch.

It is a time of loss for my family that involves days of sweat under the August heat, experts in appraisals and insurance as well as questions that begin with “What now?” I grieve for the disruption of all that was good in a place where I grew up with sunsets, fresh air and the freedom of childhood.

For me, the greatest loss is the felling of my special tree. This particular elm was created for climbing. With a giant knothole just the right height for boosting one’s adolescent self upward and another branch for hanging on – it took only minutes to vault from the ground into the security of upper limbs. On a quiet day – admittedly, that rarely happens in northwestern Oklahoma where the wind comes sweeping down the plains – I could hide within the still boughs of my tree and pretend I did not have to learn to wear a bra or start my period or deal with one more math quiz. In the solace of my tree, I cried out to God to rescue me from the hormonal rages I did not understand and the zits that dotted my face. That tree heard about my first boyfriend and my first heartache, about the prize I won at the county fair for my rock collection, about the first rejection from the words I sent to a New York publisher.

The tree represented safety when fear of the unknown gripped me – when I grew more and more serious about a particular boy in college and when I applied for a short-term missions trip and read the acceptance letter. Even before I walked down the aisle to marry another Okie, I spent an evening in my tree – reminiscing about childhood, knowing I would never again have the opportunity to whisper secrets therein.

In the cruel moments of one afternoon, a microburst reached down its powerful fist and toppled my tree. Nothing is left except the memories of a young girl who grew up on the plains of Oklahoma and found a solid foundation in the arms of an elm. How I wish I could climb there now.