High upon a hill, behind
our house, stands a lofty oak tree, towering higher then the surrounding
trees and spreading its branches over a wide area of the forest.
It is an impressive tree, with a wide sturdy trunk, free of branches
to a lofty height. It stands alone, among the other trees, as
of stately appearance, grandeur, and nobility, straight of form
and feature. Its branches form a perfect canopy for many birds
in the spring: squirrels ramp and chatter among its branches and
the eagle and other majestic birds find its great height and wide
spreading bows a perfect resting place as they fly among the hills
and mountains in search of their prey.
The Oak tree welcomes the
visitation of these magnificent birds, for it is proud of its
strength and lofty independence. The fierce thunderstorms of summer
and the cold blasts of winter winds can seldom bend its mighty
branches to their fierce determined will. It does not fear the
lightening nor the heavy snows of winter; it was impervious to
anything nature could fling at it for its roots went deep into
the ground. It was strongly anchored to the rocks of the mountain,
and the mighty sinews of its trunk and branches gave the old oak
every reason to be proud, and even a little arrogant, when it
considered the lowly pine trees, the quacking aspens, the poplars
and even the sturdy maple trees with their flaming coat of red
leaves in the fall that lent a gorgeous touch of beauty to the
scene.
It was a clear blue day,
such as often graces the mountain forest on a summer afternoon.
Powderpuff white clouds floated in the gentle breezes that barely
ruffled the small leaves at the ends of his twigs. The birds had
ceased their chattered and were quietly sheltered under the shade
of his leaves during the heat of the afternoon. An occasional
squirrel moved among the branches, peeking out in curiosity at
the speckled fawn almost hidden from view with its brown and white
leafy pattern nearly invisible among the roots of a near by pine
tree.
The oak, intent upon a moment
of self-admiration, was idly watching the clouds as they lazily
floated upon the blue of the sky. So self-absorbed was he, that
at first he did not hear the soft notes of the melody as they
ascended on the warm air from the forest floor many hundreds of
feet below. The melody was so sweet and soft, filled with such
lovely twills and gentle variations upon the main theme, that
only gradually did the sweet melodious voice penetrate his self-absorbed
mind. At first, he thought it was a choir of birds, breaking forth
in rapturous praise of the beauties of the day, but, he quickly
realized that the song, for indeed he recognized it as a most
lovely song, did not originate with his fine feathered friends
Looking about in the branches
of the pines, and scanning the near by maple, he was unable to
detect its source. As he listened more intently, in order to determine
its true direction, a thrill of delight was awakened somewhere
in his massive heart, and he strained to catch every chord and
note of the delicate music. At last, he realized that the song
was coming from the ground. Bending down, he moved several of
his branches aside so that he could get a clear glimpse of the
ground and, there, to his immediate consternation he saw a tiny
red rose nestled among his massive, gnarled roots.
Anger immediately filled
his heart and he was ashamed of the momentarily delight and joy
that he felt when he first heart the melody.
“What are you doing
here,” he bellowed, as only oak trees can bellow when they
are enraged?
But the rose did not answer
this most ungentlemanly response to her song. Rather, she gazed
up at the oak, who was now glaring furiously down upon her, with
a sweet smile and redoubled the joy of her soft melody.
“What are you doing
there,” demanded the oak, “you have no business being
here. You belong in that meadow over there,” he gestured
furiously with one of his branches and, as he did so, a shower
of leaves and twigs fell around the rose.
But again, she took no notice
of his fury or the cascading leaves or twigs. She met his furious
frown with the loveliest, sweetest smile he had ever seen. For
a moment, his oak heart was softened, but then his pride reasserted
itself, and he demanded, most imperiously, “I asked you a
question. I demand that you leave this hilltop at once This area
is reserved for the trees of the forest. You roses belong in the
meadow down below,” he thundered, this time shaking even
more of his branches in her direction.
Now he was thoroughly enraged
at her refusal to answer his questions and her defiance, of his
orders to leave the area, for she continued her sweet melody unaffected
by his rage. Now he literally quivered from root to the highest
twig, so furious was he with her for defying his orders. Seizing
a particularly weak branch, he shook it with all his might, far
greater then the summer storm could have shaken it. As he expected,
it brook loose, and now a veritable storm of branches, twigs,
leaves, and bark showered around and upon the rose. Freeing one
of his gnarled roots from its stronghold upon the rock, he kicked
mud and dirt into the face of the rose. So furious was his attack
upon her that he did not at first realize that she had ceased
her singing. Only when the cloud of dust, disturbed by his roots
had settled, did he realize that the delicate rose was buried
under a mound of mud, dirt, leaves, twigs, ranches, and bark.
She had been crushed to the ground, her petals lay in disarray,
strewn among the debris. Her stem was bruised and broken, but
even among the debris of abuse heaped upon her, a beautiful fragrant
scent seemed to ascend like perfume upon the gentle breeze, as
if the very abuse itself had released this greatest outpouring
of sweetest fragrance.
The forest was silent, the
birds had ceased their noontime twitter; the breeze seemed to
cease blowing and the leaves were silent, as if all nature were
in sympathy with the rose. The sweet fragrance seemed to ascend
in greater clouds of incense as a new and gentle breeze wafted
it into the branches of the oak, who stood sullen and angry at
the scene of desolation spread before him at his feet.
The gentle zephyr was speaking
to him but, this most dull of hearing oak tree, was slow to recognize
its voice. Softly the breeze whispered into its ear until the
oak finally became aware of its presence.
“I love you,”
it whispered most soothingly and with deep compassion.
“I love you,”
it whispered again. “You are very precious to me,” it
seemed to be saying to the oak.
Knowing what he had done,
and the totally unprovoked nature of his deeds, the oak was taken
totally by surprise at the words of the zephyr. He knew he was
guilty, but his proud stubborn heart could never admit it. Secretly,
he was ashamed of his behavior, and expected severe and immediate
retribution for his acts. But this soft zephyr, with such soothing,
caressing, loving words, was not what he expected. He looked for
retribution from the lightening and fierce winds that he intuitively
knew could destroy him if his creator choose to unleash them.
“I love you. I have
not come to condemn you or to punish you breathed the zephyr.
“How can you love me,”
sighed the oak tree, “when I have done this terrible dead
to that lovely se?”
Rather then answering this
question, the zephyr quietly changed the subject. “Do you
know why I placed you upon this high hill top and gave you such
strength in your roots and your trunk, and such large, widespreading
branches,” inquired the zephyr in the most kindly and compassionate
voice?
This question surprised
the oak, and he pondered for a moment before answering. “I
don’t know,” he frankly admitted.
“Do you believe I created
you,” whispered the zephyr in such beautiful tones of love
that the oak’s cold heart was momentarily warmed?
“I gave you your strength,”
said the zephyr, “and your strong branches and I placed you
upon this high hill top, and sunk your roots deep among the rocks
that you might gain the strength of the mountains to perform a
special work for me.” So gentle and merciful were these words
that the oak, despite himself, could not help but listen with
rapt attention.
“I gave you your strength
so you could protect the animals of the forest, that the deer,
fox, rabbits, and even the mighty bear could find shelter from
the rain and the hot sun under branches and leaves. I created
you and placed you here so that the deer could find safety under
your bows from her many enemies. Your leaves form the perfect
canopy over the nest of the baby robin and the squirrel can find
many hiding placed among your gnarled roots for his nuts that
are his food during the long winter months. The woodpecker can
find grubs among your outer bark and the mighty eagle can find
a nesting place in your high branches. Your roots, with their
firm attachment to the rocks , prevent the soil from eroding and
provide the perfect nursery for the young poplars and maples that,
when they have grown to maturity, are your neighbors and friends
in the forest. Without these trees, sheltering you from the storm
of summer and the icy blasts of winter, you would have, long ago,
fallen among the rocks at the base of the hillside.”
Gradually, as the sun guilds
the early morning sky, the oak began to realize something he had
never understood before. More intently now, then ever, he strained
to hear the soft voice of the breeze that seemed to come from
everywhere and yet from nowhere.
The oak sighed heavily,
a sound that resembled the rustling of the leaves in a gentle
breeze. “I didn’t understand these things,” he
said to the zephyr.
Continuing, the zephyr seamed
to fill his words with such sweetness and love that now the oak
was thrilled to his very roots with her mercy and compassion with
which the breeze seemed to fill the very air above his head. Subdued,
with a mixture of terror over the consequences of his act and
hope and delight that his creator was speaking with him, the oak
bent in eager anticipation as he listened to the next words his
creator spoke to him.
“I gave you my rose,
my beautiful, red, fragrant, delicate rose, to bring joy, peace,
and happiness to your heart,” he breathed in gentle admonishment.
You needed a companion, someone who could soften and subdue your
angry, proud heart. I gave you the best companion I could find
among the forest and the mountains. She is the sweetest, most
precious gift that I could give you.”
His words seemed to trail
off, as if he were gazing in sadness at the battered rose far
beneath them. Even the oak, now gazing in dismay upon the wreckage
that he had inflicted upon the creators gift to him, began to
realize how precious and beautiful and fragrant was the melody
of the rose upon whom he had heaped such abuse.
In deep melancholy of spirit,
the oak inquired of the breeze, “I didn’t realize how
valuable a gift you had given me, can you forgive me?”
Immediately, and without
hesitation, came the soft response, “thou art forgiven, my
dearly beloved. Thou art fair my love, thou art all fair and precious
in my sight.”
The oak was utterly taken
aback by these words for he recognized in them the deepest strains
of self-sacrificing love. He knew he was not precious, he knew
he did not deserve forgiveness, he knew, in his own heart, that
he was not dearly beloved, at least not by himself. And yet the
breeze continued to breath such fragrance of love and joy and
peace and forgiveness about him, that the oak began to take heart
and to believe that he could be forgiven and cleansed from his
anger, his resentment, his bitterness against all things sweet,
and lovely, and beautifully.
“Do I dare to hope,”
he said to himself, “that I can be forgiven?”
Instantly, in response to
this unspoken prayer, came the soft answer upon the breeze, “thou
art forgiven, my most precious, dearly beloved oak. Thou art forgiven
and cleansed of your anger and bitterness. For I, your creator,
have forgiven you and I have made an atonement for you with my
Father in heaven.”
The oak was not truly a
bad oak, he had only grown proud of his lofty height and grandeur,
forgetting for the time, the reason for his existence. Now, in
humbleness of heart, he inquired of the breeze, “can you
restore my beautiful, fragrant rose, that she may sing joyful
melodies again and fill the air with sweetest perfume? Is it too
late for her, can you restore her unto me,” he pleaded most
earnestly? “It isn’t too late,” he inquired earnestly?
Softly the answer came upon
the breeze. “It is not too late, my dearly beloved, but thou
must humble thyself and bend low to restore the beautiful gift
that I gave you. Only humbleness of heart can restore her too
you as your companion,” he sighed, “if you truly desire
her.”
“I do desire her,”
said the oak quietly and in deep sincerity and humility of heart.
“I will do anything to restore her to her rightful position
in the forest that she may minister to all of the trees and animals
as well as myself,” he said. And then, as if understanding
something for the first time, he exclaimed, “and restore
her too you, my creator, for I love you deeply, and desire that
she shall minister her fragrance for your joy and happiness also.”
With this last utterance,
the entire forest seemed to rejoice with the oak as he now understood
not only his purpose for being but the purpose for the rose, which
was to minister to the happiness of all the creatures, including
that of the creator.
The oak bent his full gaze
upon what was visible of the rose far, far below. Only a few,
delicate red petals could be seen among the debris of mud and
branches. Tears filled his eyes as he saw the full extent of his
destruction and they fell like gentle rain onto the pile of debris
below.
It was hard for the oak
to bend, so stiff had he become in his pride, but bend he did.
Amidst the creaking of the branches as they were forced apart,
he bent lower and lower still, every joint and ligament of his
massive trunk now felt the pain as it was forced to bend in humility,
lower and lower toward the ground. The lower he bent, and the
harder the struggle, the greater was his desire to demonstrate
his true repentance and love for the rose. Lower and lower he
bent, his branches scarping the ground and yet he bent lower despite
the pain shooting through his entire trunk. Nothing now could
stop his desire to love his rose by making restitution to her
for what he had done.
Finally, tears streaming
from his eyes and filling the air like soft spring showers, he
reached all the way down with one of his branches and very gently
began scarping away the mud, the leaves, the twigs, and the large
branches, being exceeding careful not to do any more damage then
he had all ready inflicted upon her. Gently, with the greatest
tenderness and care, he removed the last twigs, and with his own
tears washed away the last trace of mud from the face of the beautiful
rose. Heartbroken over the wreckage he surveyed, he now spoke
to her of his love and repentance. Would she respond? Would she
smile at him again? Would life revive in her bruised and battered
body and would he ever again hear her delightful music and smell
her sweet fragrance?
At first there was no response
from the apparent lifeless body of his now dearly beloved little
rose. His heart was thoroughly broken, pierced with remorse, and
tears flowed from his eyes with greater intensity then before,
bathing her in a bath of love and repentance.
Then, when he though all
hope was abandoned, one of her delicately tinted red petals moved
as she seemed to open her eyes and gazed upon him, now bent in
humility to his fullest extent. She cast upon him a smile of the
sweetest forgiveness, driving the last vestiges of cold heartedness
out of his heart and filled it to capacity with tender love for
his rose and his creator. Tenderly, with the greatest care, and
using only the most delicate of his spring-grown twigs, he gently
supported the head of his rose. Forgotten were his massive strength
and mighty stature, forgotten were his towering trunk and widespreading
branches, now, the only thing on his mind, was the desire to minister
to this most precious and delicate flower that his creator had
given especially for him.
Face to face, with tears still streaming from his eyes, the rose and the mighty oak gazed at each other with love and a new found respect and appreciation for each other. Never again would the oak boast in his might or his strength or his grand nobility, for all of these were forgotten. The only thing that filled his heart was gratitude to his creator for restoring his little rose to him and for humbling his heart. In grateful appreciation for his creator’s love and forgiveness, the mighty towering oak, broke forth in glorious song for the restoration of his rose and the forgiveness and love of his creator. His deep, booming base voice filled the mountains with echoes of praise and thanksgiving and gratitude and glory to his creator. The birds hushed their singing, the squirrels stopped their chattering, the deer and fox pricked up their ears, and the bear paused in his wanderings, and all creation listened to the triumphant notes of the oak, blended with the delicate strains of the rose as each, in their own way, praised the glories of their creator.