It’s a melancholy sort of day. You know, one of those days when things are going okay, but even the triumphs are clouded with a kind of sadness. One of those we got the rain we really need last night, but the storm sent too many of the waiting-for-fall leaves sailing prematurely kind of days.

It all started when my son-in-law pulled the chainsaw out of his van. I’ve marveled many times at what a wonderful labor-saving invention the gasoline-powered saw is, but, in all frankness, I don’t remember ever being joyful after hearing one run. I’m never ecstatic when considering the outcome of its skillful wielding.

And yes—I did request that he bring the tool with him. I’m even the one who gave him the instructions regarding what needed to be done. I angled my hand alongside the limb and indicated the direction of the cut.

Just one cut.

The hackberry tree is as nondescript a tree as you could find on our street. The graceful maples are so much prettier, especially now that fall is upon us. The pin oaks tower above the ratty hackberry, putting it to shame by their girth and height, as well as their ability to provide shade along the lane. Even the sweet gum trees, with their annoying and spiny gum balls, are spectacular in their display on any given day.

But this particular hackberry tree…

I gather my thoughts and I begin to understand my wistful mood.

You see, the tree has hurt me so many times. And so much. It had to be done. I’m sure it did.

I stand just over six feet tall. The tree has a limb that juts out from the sturdy trunk at about sixty-eight or -nine inches off the ground. If my math is correct, that means I must duck about four inches to move under it when I’m working in my yard with a lawnmower or trimmer.

I don’t always. Duck, that is.

So, I hit my head solidly on the branch about twice a month. The last couple of times it has happened, I’m sure I heard little birds tweeting. And I saw stars. Really. Stars. On a summer’s afternoon.

If I had been a pro football player, they would have taken me into a tent to run the “protocol”, checking me for a concussion. I’m fairly sure there hasn’t been one. Yet. Still, I don’t think I can bang my head many more times without doing some kind of permanent damage.

Besides that, it’s embarrassing. The Lovely Lady has no sympathy left for me (and who could blame her?). But, more to the point, I’m worried about the entertainment the neighbors are getting for free every time I walk under the tree and then back out, rubbing the top of my head. I just know they’re laughing at me each time it happens.

So, yes. I did ask my son-in-law to bring the saw and lop off the branch. He’s a good man, who understands the need to save face (or the top of one’s head).

The limb now lies in my brush pile awaiting the next collection day.

I should be happy.

But the limb is in the brush pile. And as much as I want that to make me happy, I’m sad about it.

You see, having the limb lying in the brush pile means that my grandchildren will never again hang from it like a monkey bar. They’ll never sit on it, side by side, giggling and teasing each other. It will never again, some beautiful spring evening, be a perch for the girls to stand on while their brothers stand impatiently below, waiting to have their photo taken by Grandpa.

I’ll never again hit my head on that nasty branch.

They’ll never again play and cavort on it.

It’s a melancholy sort of day.

And so, in my not-happy/not-sad state of mind, I consider life. I do that a lot. It could be my age. It could be my nature. Regardless, I scan my memories in a this-is-your-life type of review.

It’s not a new thought that comes to me as I cogitate. Rather an old one, I believe.

Joyful events—and sad—are sprinkled throughout the span of our years.

It’s a guarantee. And both have a result in our spirits.

A cheerful heart is good medicine,
but a broken spirit saps a person’s strength.
(Proverbs 17:22, NLT)

It’s not fair for us to insist that the people in our lives be happy all the time. Life happens to all of us. It happens to each of us on a different timetable.

Often, when I’m sad, the Lovely Lady is joyful. And vice versa.  It’s a good thing. I could be resentful, but there is nothing to resent. In a way, I believe it’s our Creator’s way of giving us balance. And comfort.

Rejoice with those who rejoice, weep with those who weep.
(Romans 12:15, NET)

We—human beings—are intended to complement each other. We sympathize with each other. We rejoice with each other.

While we feel what we feel, we minister.

As far as the tree goes, today is not mowing day, so I mourn the limb’s absence. I suppose it’s the rapid passing of childhood I lament most of all. Truth be told, I would never have taken it down if the children still climbed the tree with any frequency. They’ve outgrown that. Still, it makes me sad.

But, come the next time I work in the yard, I’ll rejoice. No more pain! No more embarrassment! No more holding the top of my head as I berate myself for my forgetfulness.

I’m happy to report that the chainsaw is not an eraser. It can never take away my memories, either of the children playing or of my foolishness.

Life goes on. Happy times. Sad times.

We celebrate. Together, we celebrate.

We mourn. Together, we mourn.

It’s a good arrangement.

Of course it is. He made it so, just for us.

 

 

Happiness and sadness run parallel to each other. When one takes a rest, the other one tends to take up the slack.
(Hazelmarie Elliot)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2021. All Rights Reserved.