To the amazing, beautiful young
lady the Lord will lead me to someday. Claiming God’s grace and forgiveness for
the mistakes in my past, may I keep my heart for you, complete and pure, so
that my love legacy will not be one of a rotted stump, but of a vibrant,
thriving tree.
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Romance,
who can understand it? A man and a woman attracted to one another. Two lives
intertwined. Two hearts falling for the other. Two souls bound forever. That’s
how it should be.
But
often it’s not. Hearts can be broken. Love can be lost. So beautiful, yet so
dangerous. So pure, yet so easily defiled. How I wish I could understand it!
But I am old now. I have experienced it all—first love, lost love, true love,
enduring love—and I still am no closer to solving the mystery.
There
is an old, rotted stump at the edge of my property, and it brings a pang to my
heart every time I walk by it. So much heartbreak, so much pain. But no, there
is joy now as well, for God is gracious. That stump was not always bug ridden
and crumbling with decay. Once it was a beautiful Birch tree—thriving, it’s
silver bark a sharp contrast to its cloak of dark green leaves.
A
young boy roamed the land in the days when that Birch tree was vibrant and
pure. He would splash across a clear trickling stream and throw himself on the
lush green grass, eyes merry, head thrown back in laughter. How I can see him,
even now! With legs outstretched and hands behind his head, he lay there under
the Birch tree in the grass, dreaming of what he would become and what he would
do.
She
was there too, smiling down on the boy. Her brown hair was in beautiful
disarray from running with the wind, her clear brown eyes sparkling. They had
been friends from early in childhood, but as he held her gaze that moment,
something changed forever. The boy was new to the mystery, but he did not wait
for caution. His heart went out to the girl, and it seemed a small price to pay
to love her, so pretty and perfect she seemed.
The
boy walked the girl home that afternoon feeling as if he was walking in the
clouds. On the way back, he stopped by the Birch tree again. The boy knelt and
carved a heart and a pair of initials deep in the silver bark of the tree and
then threw himself back on the lush green grass. He gazed up into the silver
and green canopy above him, now tinted golden with the last rays of the sunset,
and at the heart carved at the base of the tree, and he dreamed another dream.
But
it never came true. The boy loved the girl, and she loved him, but one day the
girl’s eyes were not sparkling when she met the boy under the Birch tree. Her
father had taken a job at the opposite corner of the nation, and they would be
moving soon. She had come to say goodbye.
The
boy swore to her that this wouldn’t be the end, that one day, when he was a
man, he would come for her. The girl smiled sadly and promised to write him,
and the next minute she was gone. He watched her go, helpless and brokenhearted.
How he wished he was older and could somehow save the girl from leaving! But he
was but a boy, and for the first time he wondered if it would have been better
to wait till manhood to love.
They
stayed in contact for a few months after the move, but overtime, the letters
started coming longer apart, than not at all. The boy wandered aimlessly
through the forest, no longer carefree and innocent, but sober and hurt. He
found himself under the Birch tree one day, staring at the heart and initials
carved into its trunk, and somehow the tree was less beautiful to him. He
suddenly threw himself to his knees and removed his pocket knife, carving away
feverishly at the heart and initials. In seconds, they were gone. But the pain
wasn’t. He wanted to forget—but could not. For though the symbol of his lost
love was gone, there was still a deep scar in the Birch tree.
The
boy grew older, and then he met his second love. She was perfect, he
thought—beautiful, smart, funny. They lived hours apart, but he found ways to
keep in contact. Soon they were e-mailing every day, and he felt himself again
giving his heart away. He was no longer completely naïve to the mystery, and
caution warned him to be careful lest he be hurt again. But she was worth it,
he thought. One fresh, crisp morning he splashed across the stream to the Birch
tree, and clasping the same knife that had been used on the tree before, he
carved a heart around another set of initials in the trunk. To him, it was a
new beginning in every way, and he barely glanced down at the scar in the
silver bark. It felt good, very good.
Months
later, the boy used his knife to shave off strips of bark, till all that was
left was another ragged scar. His stomach was tight, and he felt sick. How
could this happen to him again? Yet though he had tried to rationalize and
ignore it at first, he had learned from their e-mails how different he was from
her, his second love, and she had too. The relationship had felt good, but now
it was over. It hurt, almost more than it had ever been good. He promised
himself that the next time he carved a heart in the Birch tree, it would hold
the initials of his wife. In his grief, he couldn’t imagine it any other way.
Years
passed, and the boy became a young man. He purchased a small chunk of land from
his parents with the intention of building his own homestead on it, and 23
found him striding along the clear, trickling stream at the edge of his
property. He glanced up at a withered, silver tree as he passed, and his stride
faltered. A flood of memories came to mind. A smile played at the corners of his mouth as
he remembered a young boy stretched out under the tree, carefree and dreaming. He had spent so much time like that! But then his eyes traveled to the scars carved
in the trunk , and his smile faded. He looked away quickly, not caring to count
the scars. Not again. Not anymore. How quickly he had pushed aside his promise
in the thralls of infatuation, but again and again the relationship had not
lasted. He was so sure that she would
be the one that it seemed silly to wait till the wedding day to carve anything
more on the Birch tree, but he had been proved wrong so many times that he no
longer cared to even think of the tree. It was dying now, perhaps from some
disease, or perhaps from its scars. The young man shook his head and strode
past.
A
gust of wind played among the treetops, dislodging the last few crisp brown
leaves from their precarious perch. With the wind came the sound of an axe
ringing through the forest. The young man hacked away at the Birch tree. The
biting wind seeped through his coat and gloves, but he kept swinging
relentlessly, ignoring the cold. The rhythm of axe on wood was steady and
unbroken. It was as if he wanted it this way, as if he was willing himself away
from any other feeling. He needed firewood to last him through the winter, but
deep down inside, that was not the only reason why he was cutting down the Birch
tree.
The
tree finally fell with a loud, splintering crash. It lay there on the frozen
ground—a pathetic, leafless thing—and the young man stared numbly at it. But
something inside him had snapped with the tree, and he tossed aside his axe and
collapsed. He lay there once more in the grass, but he no longer dared to
dream. Instead, the tears he had bound up for so long came loose, and he hugged
his knees to his chest and sobbed silently.
I
know the site of a young man in such a prideless position is foreign, but I
hope you can understand what a broken, empty heart can do to a man. I can, for I was
that young man.
Yes,
it’s true. It is painful for me to tell my story, but I must in the hopes that
you will see the truth in it. Some will say that heartbreak is just all a part
of life, but I don’t believe it has to be that way. I finally understand this at least: love was
not made to be broken. It is made to thrive, to grow ever stronger till in
death do us part. Thankfully, my story didn’t end that bleak winter day. I
finally met the woman I was to marry, and 25 found me with a ring on my finger.
I held my wife’s hand, and we walked together down a little, winding stream.
She carried a shovel in her free hand. I carried a tender Birch sapling in mine.
Together,
we planted that Birch tree by the stream. It was a symbol to me of a new
chapter in my life, a commitment to the everlasting love I would have for the
woman beside me. For a long while we sat together in the lush green grass, her
head on my shoulder, and admired our work. The little Birch tree, as twig-like
and unaspiring as it was as a sapling, seemed all the more beautiful to me. At
the same time, my eyes traveled to a rotting stump a short distance away, and I
smiled sadly. Yes, the hurt was still there, but the joy and contentment was so
much stronger than that now. I pulled my wife closer and kissed her. My dream
had finally come true.
In
a few years, the children came, and I was launched into the daunting occupation
of a father. How often I needed God’s grace to raise my family! I strove to
train them up in the Lord, and praise be to Him alone, my children all accepted
Christ even from a young age! My family grew and thrived just like the little Birch
tree at the corner of our property.
My
oldest son reached the teen years, and hormones took over. One day I took him
to the old, rotted stump and told him my story. How I wanted something more for
him than what I had gone through! I cried out to God that He would help my son
keep his heart pure and undefiled for the young woman he would marry.
My
son saw my pain, and he saw my love for him. I will never forget the day that
he came to me and promised that his love legacy would be different. In the same
breath he implored my help, for he was just as baffled with the mystery as I
was. And it was hard. My son noticed quite a few pretty girls, of course, and
then the time came where he was interested in one in particular. It was all he
could do to keep his feelings for her in check. He began to question if it was
all that wrong to start pursuing the girl, and I implored him to hold fast to
his promise to guard his heart as I had been unable to do. I urged him to give
it time. He was still so young, and so much could change before he was actually
ready for marriage.
And
it did, of course. The girl turned out not to be the one the Lord intended for
my son, but praise be to God he didn’t have to find that out the hard way! You
could often find my son down by the Birch tree in those days, sprawled out on
the grass, reading the Bible I had given him. I smiled when I saw him down
there. Like father like son, a Birch tree had become a part of his young life too.
He asked me once if I would mind if he carved a heart and a pair of initials in
the tree when he was married. I told him that nothing would make me happier.
The
Birch tree grew stout and vibrant, and in much the same way, my son matured
into manhood. Finally, the waiting was over. For several years his friendship
with a certain young lady had grown only stronger, and after much prayer, my
son decided to pursue a relationship with her. In the season of courtship that
followed, he got to know her better and seriously evaluate if she would be a
good match, and every day they drew closer together. Still, though it must have
been hard at times, he waited to carve a heart in the Birch tree, steadfast in
his promise.
At
long last, there was a wedding ceremony. My son kissed his bride for the first
time that day, and with that kiss he gave her his heart, complete and pure, to
love, honor and protect her all the days of his life for as long as they both
shall live. What a joyous day that was!
They
had a honeymoon to run off to, but their first stop was at the corner of our
property. They splashed across a little stream hand in hand and ran across a
bank of lush green grass till they stopped before a lone, silver tree. They
were still in their wedding clothes—my son in his tuxedo, my daughter-in-law in
her gown—but they didn’t seem to mind.
What
they did next can still be seen to this day. My son knelt down, and with great
care he carved a heart and a pair of initials in the silver Birch tree.
