Willow Oaks
An interesting thing, Grace has parish records going back to the Civil War. I went looking for any notes for when the Spanish Flu came through, 1918-1920. The last record was in January of 1918. Nothing else was entered for two years after that. Which at first was very discouraging. But then it wasn’t. Grace is still here. There was a silent spell. But Grace is still here. I like that.
Another interesting thing, you may have noticed that Grace has two substantial majestic willow oaks, book ending either end of the front of the property. They were planted at the same time to do just that, book ends, marking a sacred space. Willow Oaks get majestic after about 75 years, and then they just keep getting grander.
Water Oaks are different, that is what was mostly planted around Anderson post Great Depression. They are all slowly aging out now. This is as far as they go. We have some beautiful water oaks, not as many as we did though.
I keep looking at the two willow oaks and wonder about who planted them. They would have been planted not longer after the Spanish Flu Pandemic. A gift passed forward, marking a new beginning, a sacred time, a note passed along.
The readings for Monday and Tuesday of the fifth week of Easter touch lightly on these things. Leviticus 16 speaks of honoring sacred space and making things holy that had forgotten their holiness. First Thessalonians speaks of trusting our death and our living to God. The Sermon on the Mount continues in Matthew 6 with prayer, in secret, and in all the ways we can say yes to God.
Dusty old parish records and old willow oaks, they don’t make bold theological assertions. The things we know, the things of this day, every encounter, that is what we end up praying about. Parish records, tall trees. They are their own creed, drawing us out into life, notes passed down to us to live, just live, ain’t it grand! Plant trees. Pass the note along.
Pax,
Fr. Jack