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Sunday, April 7, 2013
It held a strange fascination for me, that cherry tree.
As soon as I was able to climb a ladder, my brother and I picked the dark red, sour fruit that Mother made into pies. In spring, the blooms promised the joy of the season on its way. Before there was any need of ladders, I would shimmy up the trunk, playing my own games, imagining my own world, looking down on all I claimed below.
“Now don’t climb too high,” my mother would admonish me, and when she was looking, I didn’t.
But the greatest exhilaration came when I passed the kitchen on the first floor, my bedroom on the second, the stand-up attic that was the third floor, and then — joy of joys — I could peek over the roof!
I was conqueror of that sky world. But the tree was mighty skinny at the top, and when a good wind came along, fear seized me and I was sure I was facing my own mortality.
“Please, God,” I would say aloud. “Just let me get down this time, and I will never peer over the roof again.”
When the wind would subside, I would climb down, touch my feet to the ground and say thankfully, “Never, never again.”
At times, I forgot my promises to God and found myself peeking over the roof. It happened until other horizons beckoned me.
Even now I am reminded of that cherry tree, at times when I forget God’s grace and all the second and third chances God gives me to call a friend, send a card or be better than I am.
The cherry tree has been gone for years, but it will be in my memory forever.
Weather JournalStorm track isn't very snowy for us