By Gary Miller
Joyce Kilmer wrote;
I think that I shall never see A poem lovely as a tree.
A tree whose hungry mouth is prest Against the sweet earth’s flowing breast;
A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray;
A tree that may in summer wear A nest of robins in her hair;
Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain.
Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.
If you have garnered much time in the woods, you too have appreciated the beauty of trees. I'm a man and I don’t get wrapped up in very much “mushiness,” but I love trees. I have a good history with them. I am so glad when I was about 20 years old, I was able to work in the woods with someone who once was a logger. It was there I began to learn the difference between the oak and the hickory and the beech and the poplar and so many others.
Now I still get confused at times but for the most part I can make sure I am not sitting in a maple thinking it’s a white oak. This may not seem like a big deal to you, but it would surprise you to know how many people can't tell one tree from another. There is, however, at least one thing that every tree has in common; every tree reaches toward God. Its limbs may be twisted. There may be a scar from days gone past. It may have had to grow around or through all sorts of obstacles, but ultimately its branches found their way to the skies.
Friend, your life may be one that has had to grow through unmovable objects. Others may see your scars as a sign that you are no longer of any value. To God those marks are not what set you aside as worthless but they set you aside as unique just like each tree. And remember; only God can make a tree.
Gary Miller can be reached via e-mail at firstname.lastname@example.org