Outside my kitchen window, in my neighbor’s yard is a large, mature cherry tree. In the spring, its white blossoms dominate my view. After a foggy winter night, I will awaken to its bare branches swathed in white frost. After the hush of a snowstorm, every twig carries a deposit of snow, highlighting the intricacy of its design. In summer, the filtered light through its leaves at sunrise and bright red cherries are my delights. In autumn, its leaves are some of the last to fall among the trees in the neighborhood.
Today there are green cherries all over the tree. In my view of so much emerald green, my mind struggles to remember the more harsh views of winter. My memory feels feeble and ungrateful as I try to remember what it was like to look out the window just a few months ago. Winter is beautiful, but when the leaves are out, it’s hard to remember that there was a winter.
I drive my truck around the neighborhood, with several simple birthday gifts for Relief Society sisters on the seat next to me. I could easily walk this route, but I want to finish my errands quickly. The more noble part of me wants to knock on the doors to give the women the carefully wrapped gifts and cards written with my heart. The shy part of me wonders whether I should just leave the gifts on the doorsteps and avoid knocking. After all, this week’s demands have been great. Perhaps I have given enough. But then I remember the tree outside my window.
How many times has this tree blessed my life? How many times has it provided fruit and shade in the summer? How many cold seasons has it weathered, to live to amaze us with its unrestrained display of white flowers? How many times has its presence been enough to inspire me, in frost, in heat, sunshine, and storms?
I knock on the doors. I can be like this tree.
