The ever-turning rhythm of the seasons becomes my pattern for the stages of life. Not all leaves turn vivid colors in the fall.

Page 42 of “The Tree of Happiness”

I spent much of my free time on a tree platform with my

brother, Bobby. We were closest.

That tree with Bobby was the first place I can ever remember

experiencing internal joy. The trunk held us up high on the branches

as we constructed our tranquility. The wooden platform was nailed

with hundreds of nails.

I could feel God in this tree. Yes, God as I knew him.

Genuine love!

This tree, without purpose or intent, gave me shade and

shelter from the chaos in my childhood. The bark was fractured,

coarse and grayish brown. The height reached sixty or sixty-five

feet.

It was a creation of God’s, just like I was. It was a home for

birds, squirrels, bugs and me. I would lie, nestled in my home, and

feel the sunlight welcoming my spirit. I examined every part of this

elm. The green leaves were oval and came to a point at one end.

There were lines down the middle of each leaf, and their sides were

jagged. I would climb my way to God every time I would lose heart

or feel anxious. This was my first realization that there would,

eventually, be a time for everything.

I think I was in fourth or fifth grade when my father opened

his church. The place of worship was a small congregation in the

middle of the bad side of town.

We went to church plenty. We had revivals. We sang old

hymns. We studied the Bible.

I was a preacher’s kid.

Later, I was in a prison of a different kind, trapped in the pain

of chronic depression with no way out.

I remember a sermon about there being a time for birth, a

time to die; a time to plant and a time to harvest. This lodged itself in

my conscience. It became a lens through which I could understand

the world around me.

I would think of all the things God made while I was sitting

in my nest, created of boards and nails. The jagged green leaves

intrigued me. They whispered to me, or so I pretended. The steady

breeze gave them a language only I could understand. Each fall, the

leaves would turn yellowish and plummet to the ground. Then the

old elm tree looked barren. But after the hardship winter, the tree and

its leaves emerged again for the spring season. After the flowering,

there were always plenty of elm seeds. And the umbrella tree of

shade returned.

Ecclesiastes 3:1-8 is a well-known passage that deals with the balanced, cyclical nature of life and says that there is a proper time for everything.

Fall is my favorite season. Something magical happens to my heart during this time of year. It is the smells in the air, the hot soups,  the crunching of the crisp leaves, and the time for healing. It is a time for family and gatherings.

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