As we draw near to Thanksgiving, I think of our heavenly banquet where we will gather for eternity. I also think of those who will not be there, the souls that are lost, and I pray for them, that they choose redemption.
One day I had a dream, sort of a parable, somber and sobering, about those who make it... and those who don't.
--
Thanksgiving Branches
by Fr. Jonathan Atchley
This is a story of part truth, part imagination.
When I was a small child, I would enjoy sitting under a large tree in my grandmother’s backyard.
It was a fine tree to lean against. I enjoyed it as a very comfortable and private place for looking up at the clouds and listening to the drone of airplanes. As evening fell, I would gaze through the tree up at the stars.
Once, I thought I heard the tree conversing with its branches. There I sat, very still, listening to this conversation. "Someday soon, "the tree solemnly said, "autumn will come, and all of you branches will fall from me and die.”
With this came a general rustling and murmuring of surprise, anger and disbelief. The tree waited patiently for the noise to subside.
"After you fall,” it continued, “people will come out and gather you up. Then you will either be used for tinder in the fireplace, or proudly displayed in places of honor on their Thanksgiving Table. The choice is yours. You must grow beautiful, as you were meant to be, if you wish to share their homes and lives."
Now, with this sobering news, the branches grew quiet, wondering what it would be like one day when they would fall from the tree. Beginning with one and moving through the lot, they started to weep. "I don't want to be separated from the tree!" one cried, while another was heard to mumble in disdain: “Who cares about decorating peoples’ homes?”
The tree, insistent on the importance of their cooperation, let the branches work things out on their own. Each branch was given to think through their choice carefully. Eventually, each came to their own decision about their destinies:
Fearfully, one branch vowed to not grow at all. The time came for it to fall. On the ground it looked very small, not much larger than a twig, if perhaps a bit chubbier than before.
Another branch angrily refused to sprout any blooms. Without a purpose, it grew this way and that, twisting and turning, gnarled and unsightly. It's wish also came true.
A third branch lacked self-confidence and could not decide how it wanted to grow. Spending itself with emotion, it grew unevenly, sprouting in two directions, then three.
A fourth branch thought it a splendid idea to grow as the tree suggested, and it developed beautifully laden with a rich and heady bouquet of leaves and delightful blossoms.
Such is life: each branch decided how it would grow. Autumn came, and with the change of seasons, the branches began to fall to the ground, their fate determined once they were forever separated from the tree.
It was also about this time, I heard my grandmother call: "Grandson, it's time to collect the branches in the backyard." I left my place under the tree to gather them up, sorting them into piles Grandmother would sort through.
"This branch is too short to be of any use,” Grandmother sighed. “Here,” she instructed me, “throw it into the fireplace.”
"And look at how this branch has grown to be so gnarled and unshapely. I just don’t see how we can use this one either.”
"Here’s one that isn’t what we are looking for… but perhaps we can break off this part where it splits”— (I heard a loud “snap!) “…and save what remains.”
Then grandmother smiled with delight. "Oh!! Now, this branch…” she held it out admiringly, offering it for me to examine as well--“this is the kind we have been looking for! See how beautiful it is, full-figured with fragrant blossoms. It will make a splendid centerpiece for Thanksgiving."
That evening, the family gathered for Supper. The table was wonderfully festooned with a decorous and redolent display of flowers and branches lovingly arranged.
Those branches that weren't selected became tinder for the fire, warming the house with the glowing heat of their smoldering ashes.
Comments