The Humble Tree
Jolayne R Kline
The day spent
revisiting the old homestead had been full of memories of years long
past. It had been a good idea to come back. Happy, laughing moments
with my three brothers and parents had filled my mind all day long as I
wandered through the rooms of our home, explored the orchard behind the barn,
and gazed over the landscape I had so often studied as a young girl. Now, with steps more tentative and careful
with time, I found myself following the lazy, trickling stream west of the house. It was a path I had taken daily and the
familiarity of it flooded my old-woman heart with a desire to run and skip.
The oak tree
still stood in the farthest corner of the grassy field, almost as a sentinel,
skirted by a crudely-built fence, its leafless branches beckoning to me as if
they had been waiting. Yet I could
hardly climb the old oak now, even if I had wanted to. It was enough just to see it and touch it--the
limbs now gnarled with age, much as my own hands. I suppose this was the real reason why I came
today. My absence had indeed been long,
but it seemed only as if it were yesterday that I was scurrying up the knotted
and textured trunk to the lofty branches above the ground. And there I would sit for hours on end,
reading…thinking…dreaming. Mother always
knew to look for me first down at the Humble tree before searching anywhere
else.
“Aah, the Humble
tree.” I quietly murmured as I fingered
the pattern of the bark. I hadn’t said
it aloud for years. Kind of an odd name
for a tree, especially if you were going to name a tree at all! But, that’s what it was called, even years
before I claimed it as my own.
My first
memories of the Humble tree were from my father reading my great grandfather’s
journals. My brothers and I would sit at
night huddled around the fireplace as Father unfolded story upon story of
Jamison Clark’s life. My favorite, of
course, being the story of the Humble tree.
As I grew older, I took to reading the journals myself and read them constantly. So often, in fact, that I could recite them
nearly word for word. Perhaps, even yet,
my mind could recall his words, for in his own voice the Humble tree story was
best told and understood.
Late Winter 1854
February 5 – The
winter of ’54 has been long and dreary.
Snow piles blanket upon blanket on the ground until you’d think it would
last forever. This confines all of us to
the house except for my twice-a-day trips to the barn to care for the
animals. Sarah is heavy with child, due
most likely around my birthday in March, and little Maggie keeps us both lively
and on our toes. Perhaps I feel the bias
of fatherhood, but she really is a marvel.
The other night, Sarah and I were sitting by the fire enjoying the peace
of a quiet, shared moment and the crackling fire. We both thought Maggie was asleep, but
suddenly she sits up in her tiny bed in the corner of the room, and in all
seriousness, announced to us with her four-year old wisdom that someday she was
going to be a princess! Where she gets
these ideas, I don’t know, but little does she know that she already is
one. Mine. What a girl!
February 10 –
Another snowstorm quarantined us to the house.
I am so glad I spent extra time last Fall filling in those chinks in the
wall. The winds often rage outside and
the snow flurries about the windows, but my small family is snug and safe.
February 12 –
Maggie woke up this morning with a fever.
She wasn’t quite herself throughout the day. We weren’t sure from one minute to the next
if she would be crying or quietly playing.
I did my best to comfort her at bedtime knowing how tired Sarah was, and
finally Maggie fell asleep in my arms after hours of rocking. Neither Sarah nor I have any idea what is
wrong with our little girl. The snow
makes it impossible for me to leave the house and get the doctor, and I feel so
helpless to know what to do. We are
hoping that a good night’s rest will make a difference. Sarah and I knelt in prayer this evening
before supper to ask the Lord to watch over and heal our little Maggie. I feel certain that things will be all right.
February 24 – I
haven’t had the heart to pick up my pen to share the tragedy that has come to
my home in the last ten days. Even now,
the pain is so overwhelming, and I can hardly bring myself to write the words,
for it seems as if writing them makes it even more real. Maggie showed no signs of improvement of
Wednesday, the 13th. I stayed
by her small bed hour upon hour cooling her forehead with cold rags, but
nothing seemed to work. My frustration
grew as I watcher her listless little body.
I sent Sarah to bed about 11:30 pm.
She was so exhausted, and though I suppose I was too, I couldn’t bring
myself to sleep, to leave Maggie’s side.
During the middle of the night she called out for her mommy. Sarah joined me by Maggie’s bed and together
we sat the rest of the night. I don’t
think I’ve ever prayed harder or longer at any time than I did that night,
pleading for the Lord to bless my little one.
I thought for sure he would hear the plea of a loving father. If anyone could save my daughter, He
could. And so I never stopped believing
that He would.
Early Thursday
morning, Maggie reached her hand out and rested it upon mine. It was so hot, the touch of it fairly burned
my skin. Finally, she opened her big,
brown eyes and weakly smiled at me, as if apologizing for causing trouble. And then…she simply closed her eyes and
died. My princess was gone! The shock
blurred the moments into hours as I sat holding onto her tiny hand. Sarah, in the midst of her own sorrow,
finally gently removed Maggie’s cold hand from mine and wrapped her in her
favorite blanket. My mind screamed at me
that this could not be so. My Father in
Heaven would not be so cruel. I had
prayed! He had to have heard. How could He do this to me?
I left Sarah
then, not even thinking to comfort her aching heart, and charged out of the
house. I had sense enough to grab an
overcoat before leaving, but I doubt I would have felt the cold anyway as anger
overtook my heart and soul. I stormed
and raged at the Lord. How dare He allow
my Maggie to die? What had we done to
deserve such cruelty? I am ashamed now
to admit than in my sorrow and shock, I curse the Lord. I continued to walk for hours outside in the
biting cold, not even noticing it. I
don’t know where I went or how far, I only know that sometime in the late
afternoon, as the sun was beginning to dip into the western horizon, I found
myself standing by the oak tree in the west field below the house.
I thought of the
numerous times I was tempted to chop the blasted tree down. It hampered my tilling of the field and
required precious space. But Sarah and
Maggie had always loved sitting under its leafy branches waiting for me to join
them for a picnic lunch. “Oh….Maggie,
this can’t be real. Why, Lord,
why?” I pleaded. I realized that I was crying as my arms
encircled the tree. I don’t know how
long I stood there with great sobs racking my body, but after awhile the
consuming anger I had felt was spent, and emptiness came to fill the void.
I didn’t really
expect any answers from the Lord, nor did I feel none too deserving of them
after my afternoon of hatred…I only hoped for a miracle. Now that I look back, I see that one did
come, but I certainly didn’t recognize it as such. I simply felt in my heart an intense desire
to read 1 Peter4 and 5. That’s all. And suddenly I realized my body was shivering
in the cold evening light. And I
remembered Sarah. I rushed back to the
house only to find her sleeping on our bed.
Maggie was nowhere, and I sorrowed again for leaving Sarah the task of
dealing with our daughter’s lifeless body.
I lay down beside her on the bed and enfolded her in my arms, pulling
the comforter over my chilled body. She
awoke, but still we laid there for hours.
It was about two
day later, as I sat staring into the fire one evening, reminiscing, when I
recalled the whispering to my heart by the oak tree. I quickly stood and reached for the Bible
upon the mantle of the fireplace and turned hastily to the New Testament. I skimmed the verses in 1 Peter chapters 4
and 5 and then settled back to ponder them more deeply. Though it didn’t make the loss of Maggie any
easier, I felt all at once reproached…loved…
humbled. The Lord spoke peace to me through those verses
and comforted my lonely heart with a feeling of love more intense than I had
ever known before.
Beloved,
think it not strange concerning the fiery trial which is to try you, as though
some strange thing happened unto you.
But rejoice, inasmuch as ye are partakers of Christ’s sufferings, that
when his glory shall be revealed, ye may be glad with exceeding joy. If ye be reproached for the name of Christ,
happy are ye, for the spirit of glory
and of God resteth upon you…wherefore let them that suffer according to the
will of God commit the keeping of their souls to him in well doing, as unto a
faithful Creator.
…be
clothed in humility: for God resisteth the proud, and giveth grace to the
humble. Humble yourselves therefore
under the mighty hand of God, that he may exalt you in due time. Casting all your care upon him; for he careth
for you.
February 28 –
The days seem to be slipping past me without my awareness of them. Some things I do out of habit, such as taking
care of the animals, but usually night falls, and I can’t remember what I’ve
done all day long. My heart yearns for
Maggie. Sarah is heartsick as well. She walks around the house picking up a
spoon, or doll, or book and holds it gently yet firmly to her heart. I’ve watched her stand in this position at
times for at least a half an hour totally oblivious to me as well as to her
surrounding and then suddenly, as if something startled her, she continues
doing whatever it was she had been doing.
Both of us are struggling with a deep inner anguish and longing that
won’t go away. I think it will be good
for the baby to come and give us, Sarah especially, something to focus her
thoughts and energies on. I don’t mean
that I want us to forget about Maggie and get on with life. That can’t be done. We just somehow need to get on with life in
the midst of our memories.
March 3 – The
morning dawned bright and clear, and surprisingly warmer. Drops fell from the roof of the house outside
the kitchen window throughout the day. I
encouraged Sarah to take a short walk outside, but she soon tired and I tucked
her back into her rocking chair by the fire with her sewing in her lap. I, however, could not be confined any longer
and spent the afternoon walking thought the fields planning my summer crops. The snow would surely prove to be a rich
source of moisture for the ground. I
felt an itching to begin planting right away, to be out in the sunshine, to
feel the invigoration of a hard day’s work.
It wouldn’t be long now.
Somehow my
wandering drew me back to the west field.
I hadn’t really been avoiding it, but still I wasn’t quite sure I was
ready for the surging of emotion I might possibly feel. I found myself at the foot of the oak
tree. I don’t think I would ever
envision this small corner as wasted space again. I touched a branch of the tree and felt all
at once the love my Savior engulfing me.
His words came to mind. “Humble yourselves
therefore under the might hand of God, that he may exalt you in due time: Casting all your care upon him, for he careth
for you.” Humble yourself…certainly the
oak tree, no, the Humble tree, would be a reminder ever after…
November 8, 1995
The sun was
sitting just on the horizon, the sky splashed with pink and purple hues, when I
felt the coolness of evening bring me out of my reverie. A slight breeze whispered across my wrinkled
cheeks chilling the tears. I lifted my
hand off the branch where it rested and brushed it across my face. The last time I had read the journals of
Grandpa Jamison, I remembered thinking that this experience with Maggie and the
Humble tree, as it was known ever after, was the beginning of change for
him—the beginning of a legacy. I suppose
I felt such a connection to this bit of history since, in the generations to
follow, I was the only daughter to bless the Clark
family. In my early years, I think it
was my name that instilled in me such a kinship to my great grandfather and his
family—I was christened Maggie Jamison Clark—quite a source of pride for me,
though the last name of Shell had been added decades ago. But as I grew in the challenges of life, even so far as losing my own daughter,
it was the Humble tree experience and 1 Peter that had perpetuated the legacy
and silently guided my life.
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