I don’t like change. Well—sometimes, I do. And then—I wish things hadn’t changed after they do.
I’m not explaining this very clearly, am I?
Let’s see if I can do better.
I like trees—especially old ones. Old trees exude comfort and reassurance that all is well with the world. They are a constant—a connection from former generations to the future.
They’ve seen it all, lasting through the storms and the seasons, standing firm.
It makes me sad when old trees are cut down. Except when it doesn’t.
Oh. Here I go again—talking in circles.
Give me another chance, will you?
The old mulberry tree stood outside the kitchen window. For well more than sixty years, it gave shade from the sun blasting down in summer. There were berries in the spring. Berries that fed the birds by the thousands and provided the residents of the old house with flavorful complements to their cereal and, perhaps, even filling a pie or two.
The tree has been a constant throughout the life of the Lovely Lady who lives in the old house with me. She was brought to this home from the maternity ward in the hospital and doesn’t remember a day when it wasn’t there.
Even I, as a relative newcomer (not yet fifty years) to the family, have walked under it on many spring days, pulling down a handful of the purple fruit to munch on, tossing the stems to the ground under the lovely old tree. I have stood under its shade on many a sweltering summer afternoon, grateful for the protection from the sun.
The twisted, gnarled old tree always brings a smile to my face when I think of it. I loved it and thought I would never want it gone.
I don’t like change.
But, it has been evident over the last three years that the funny little tree was reaching the end of its life. The branches at the top began to lose their leaves, drooping lifelessly toward the ground below. And this year, there were almost no leaves to be seen anywhere on the tree, except the few that popped from the trunk itself. Not a single branch bore any sign of green.
I hate to cut down trees. Especially old friends such as this lovely little mulberry. And, it could have stayed right where it was, limbs drooping to the ground, for several more years. Except for one thing; those drooping limbs (and a large part of the upper trunk) hung right over the power line dropping down to the house.
Winter is coming. It is. We live in a relatively temperate area, but in most winters we get at least one or two storms coming through that drop what the meteorologists like to call freezing rain. Simply put, water falls from the sky into the extremely cold air near the ground and freezes solid on every surface upon which it lands.
Water is heavy. Freezing water coating the limbs is a disaster waiting to happen.
I wanted the problem taken care of before winter comes. My heater won’t work if the electricity is interrupted, and I need heat in the winter. Most folks do.
My old friend, Isaac, came by last week to remove the old oak tree across the street (a story for another day) and I asked him if he could extend his stay in the neighborhood long enough to take care of my problem.
He wondered if I could wait for a few weeks. I couldn’t. Even the few days I had to wait for him to finish the other job was a few days too many. The tree needed to come down ASAP!
You see? Sometimes, I do like change.
Yesterday, Isaac took the tree down. Limb by limb, section by section, it came to the ground. I was happy to see the limbs on the grass. Especially that section that hung over the power line.
Soon, all that remained was the twisted and gnarled old trunk. My friend knows what he is doing. He left enough weight above the trunk on the side to which he wanted it to fall.
He didn’t even have to cut a notch near the ground like you see most of the lumberjacks doing in the movies. Just a straight cut right above the level of the dirt. A push, and it was done.
The mulberry tree lay on the ground waiting to be cut into smaller pieces the tractor would lift into the trailer.
I wish it hadn’t.
You see, I don’t like change.
Most of us don’t. We hold on to the things that make us comfortable. Even when it’s clear that they are rotting and decaying, we hold on to them. And then, when they are finally wrenched from our grasping, clinging hands, we bemoan their loss.
As if those things could ever last forever.
Years ago, I played the old portable pump organ (and sometimes a real piano) for my Dad at the nursing homes where he preached on Sunday afternoons. He would let the old folks pick the songs they wanted us to sing. One we sang again and again was “Abide With Me”. It was far from my favorite then.
I like it now. I think it’s because I understand it better.
“Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day;
earth’s joys grow dim, its glories pass away.
Change and decay in all around I see.
O thou who changest not, abide with me.”
(from Abide With Me, by Henry Francis Lyte)
Come to think of it, part of the change we’ve lived through is the moving away from common use of the old hymns. It’s part of the natural ebb and flow of life, but we don’t like that change, either.
All things move on. They always have.
My young friend, who writes songs for followers of Christ today, wrote a line in one of his songs a few years ago. It’s as powerful as the last line in the old hymn above.
“You cannot change, yet you change everything.”
(from Rest in You, by Leonard/Jordan/Fox)
It’s true—there is decay in everything around us. Science tells us that everything is decaying. And yet, there is new life. And growth.
And, these places of discomfort we move into become places of comfort. Places we’ll eventually move on from again. And again.
Change and decay in all around I see.
But God—He never changes.
A Rock. A Fortress. The place we run into and find rest. Before change comes—again.
More trees will grow. And fall.
We have a certain anchor in every storm.
In a world of change and decay, a Solid Rock.
I still miss the old tree.
“Change is the law of life. And those who look only to the past or present are certain to miss the future.”
(John F Kennedy)
“Long ago you laid the foundation of the earth
and made the heavens with your hands.
They will perish, but you remain forever;
they will wear out like old clothing.
You will change them like a garment
and discard them.
But you are always the same;
you will live forever.”
(Psalm 102: 25-27, NLT)
© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2024. All Rights Reserved.
