There was an oak tree here once. You wouldn’t remember it because you hadn’t been by here when its roots held firmly in the ground there by your feet, when its trunk invited the young to admire and to climb, and when its branches gracefully and dependably protected us from the intense heat of the midday sun. A beautiful tree ... not, perhaps, a model tree or a flashy display tree ... but one of depth. You knew it would be there when you came by. You could depend upon it and could lean calmly and quietly upon it when you were weary.

I wish you could have seen that tree. You would have enjoyed it, and you, too, would have known its quiet grace and protective care. But the tree is gone now, and yet it is not really gone. You see, it’s sort of in me. The picture, the memory, the inspiration -…