THE TREE
[Instead of a homily for this 11th Sunday in Ordinary Time, B, because it is Father's Day, I sat down last night and wrote this story. It began by noticing that in the first reading and the gospel, mention is made of trees. And in the second reading, it has the great mantra: "... we walk by faith, not by sight." It is totally an imaginary story - but as I listen to it, I'm sure I'll spot some realities. Like yesterday afternoon and into the evening I was at a wedding celebration and I got to sit next to the Father of the Bride.... And I'll sense my father in the story. He was quiet and liked poetry, but he was not an electrician.]
THE TREE
He was a father.
He was also a son - a brother - a husband - an electrician -
a poet - yes a poet - and a very quiet sort of a fellow - definitely an
introvert. He was well loved - easy going - someone you could call on to do a
favor. Any thing. Any time. And when you asked him for help, he would come and
do it with a smile and leave you and himself with a great smile.
He was not yet a father - but about to be.
His first child - a baby girl - 6 pounds 6 ounces - named
Judy after his grandma - changed his life - as well as his wife’s life - for
good. Obviously.
The changes started shortly and slowly after his wife, Joan,
called him at work, “We’re pregnant.”
A tear came to his eye as he stood there
after the call. He said to himself, “I’m going to be a father.”
He was a poet - not published - but he kept a small 9 ½ x 6 inch notebook in a second drawer in his
work cabinet in the basement. In this notebook, he would jot down poem possibilities. He was doing this ever since his sophomore
year in high school - when his poem won the high school poetry contest. It was
a total surprise: a poem about the wonderful taste of cold milk and three
chocolate chip cookies. After that he
would get an idea for a poem during a game or at school and after
he graduated from high school, while at work or where have you. So he was doing this from time to time since he
was 15 years old.
Sometimes he would finish a poem - usually after 16 to 20
rewrites. At first his poems had to have
rhyme and a beat - but in time he moved away from that stricture and structure.
He would borrow books of poems from the library on a regular basis and go through
them. Poetry books were usually rather thin books. So it wasn’t that difficult
a task to finish 3 out of the 5 books -
before he brought them back. He studied
forms and formats - especially of a poem that he could actually understand. To
him, too many poems were too, too complicated. He never talked to anybody about
all this. It was simply one of those little human, quiet hobbies or endeavors, that we all have. They were like electricity
in his wiring. He loved the poems of Carl Sandburg and Robert Frost, Elizabeth
Bishop and Emily Dickinson.
He was becoming a father.
While Judy was growing in her mother’s womb, he tried to
write at least 4 poems to try to capture his feelings and the time. None were
good enough or finished enough to be transferred to his other book - his
final product poems - which he kept in a plastic bag - on the bottom of that
second drawer in his work cabinet in the basement. This was a small black vinyl
bound book. It had better paper and he wrote in it with better hand writing. On the front - it had
the title of his book - printed in ball point pen - on a neat - perfectly cut label which he made from grey metallic duct
tape. He entitled his book - Milk and
Chocolate Chip Cookies. It was named after his first poem - the one that
won the poetry contest in his sophomore year in high school.
Now that he was going to become a father he was wondering
what image would he use to describe himself - as father. Since he was a big man
- 6 foot 5, his nicknames in school were “Bear” and “Walrus”. He thought: should
I think animal?
No. Nope. Neither made any connections in his mind.
Should he think object? One time there, he was called “Hunk.” Or then when he worked in a gas station
one summer he picked up the nickname “Hubcap!” because he knew a place where
you could get hubcaps - any hubcap. Back then people would lose hubcaps way
more than today. People would call or come to him - whenever they needed a used
hubcap.
He was still waiting for the right image - right metaphor -
for fatherhood.
After Judy was born - sitting out in their backyard - just off from the
porch - with the new born baby in his arms, he realized that their piece of
backyard had no trees. It was empty. He asked different fellows at work, what
kind of tree is the best kind of tree to plant around here.
He decided on an oak tree. He found one in a nursery. It was thin. It was tall - about 12 feet tall. And they came the next day with their big truck and the long, tall, teenage tree. They planted it in a half hour in the empty
backyard. It would take a lot more time
to grow - but he was planning on being around for a long time. He thought, “I can watch it grow - along with
my family.”
He grew. His family grew. The tree grew. It grew slowly
through the years. He made sure it got plenty of water and fertilizer. When you
have only one tree, it’s quite a responsibility.
After Judy came Max - then Audrey - then Patricia. Three
girls and a boy.
He was a father.
As the tree got bigger and stronger, he loved sitting under it
with one, two, three, four of his kids on the grass next to him. Max - their
only son - tried climbing the tree as he
grew - but thank God only he - because it could be dangerous.
When Judy, their oldest daughter, got married at 22, she and dad and mom had to
have a picture with her in her white gown - before they went to the church.
They had started tree pictures ever since first communions and then confirmations
and then graduations and now, he thought, marriages too. Praise God.
In fact, in time, on every special occasion, the oak tree had to be in on the
picture.
When a kid got in trouble - or when he and Joan had a fight,
he’d go out back by himself and sit under that growing, that knowing, tree. He'd sit with the loneliness of failure or fight - and then the beauty of
forgiveness. Sometimes when one of the kids did some dumb thing - like being
arrested for D.U.I. - if you looked, you could see dad outside from the kitchen
window all by himself - under their oak tree.
And sometimes he’d have a note book in hand.
Sometimes he and Joan sat out there by themselves - praying
for one of their kids - when that kid really needed prayer. Then again, they
would always break into prayer for all four kids - as well as for each other. Family
….
Finally all four kids were gone - married - moved out - and
it was just he and Joan. He asked Joan if she wanted to move - to a warmer
weather place like Alabama or Georgia or Tennessee
or one of the Carolinas. She said in bed that night, “We can’t. You can’t. You’ll miss your tree too much.”
One June afternoon - when Joan was baby sitting for Judy's two kids - their two
grand kids, Kevin and Kyle, he went outside and sat under
the tree. He had in hand his note pad and began working on a poem he had
dabbled in and worked with many times. It’s title was “Fatherhood”
FATHERHOOD
Fatherhood - a tree -
that started as a tiny seed -
but look at me now -
rooted down deep
in the dirt of
the earth - but reaching high,
high into the sky?
Fatherhood - look at me -
branching - branching out -
arms outstretched -
reaching for the east,
reaching for the west,
reaching for the best?
Look at me!
Look at me - broken at times -
scared and scarred at times -
whispering in the wind
and in the storm -
silent in summer’s hot days?
Lean against me?
Feel me growing and growing
always reaching for the stars?
Yet, but, if you stop to sit beneath me,
you’ll hear my thoughts, my memories.
The tree - each tree - this tree -
dying to become a chair,
a table, the cross, a wall, a baseball bat,
a broom, a church bench an altar,
a part of a house - part of everything.
Fatherhood. Now I see
what Jesus learned in the carpenter shop
with Joseph. No wonder he was always
thinking of God, our Father. Oh my God,
you are part of everyone and everything.
Why did I ever become an electrician?
I should have been a carpenter.
Under that poem was a tiny note, “Version 14” and then he added another note,
“Getting there.”
Seventeen years later - shortly after he died - Joan was down the
basement - and you're not going to believe this - she spotted a clothes pin clipped half of a bag of chocolate chip cookies on top of his work bench underneath his work cabinet. Being inquisitive - or was it fate or faith - she just happened to open that second drawer in his cabinet?
Surprise. She saw his note book. She wondered a few times
where he kept that - and what was in it.
And then the surprise of her life, the plastic bag - on the bottom of that drawer. She was
about to throw it out.
She looked inside. There it was: his ¾ finished book of
poems, Milk and Chocolate Chip Cookies.
And yes it had about 7 wonderful love poems just to her.
And yes, she was tempted to go outside to his tree - but that would have taken too much time. She simply sat there in his chair in the basement - and she read all his poems. "Tears and chocolate chip cookies," she thought with a smile.
Then - after reading it, she went upstairs - found her cell phone and called all 4 kids one by one. “Guess what I
found in the basement - a gift from your father?”
And then she read to each of their four kids - one at a time - a poem he had written about that kid.
