Under the Sycamore Tree

When I turned in the preacher's robe for the farmer's blue jeans, many things started changing.  One of the things which changed was my view of myself inside the creation.  Things around here are old, very old.  The dirt speaks of forever.  The towering trees speak of something just short of eternity.  The memoires hanging in the air speak of people who walked this land, worked it, made a living from it, and who left some of their blood, sweat, and tears mixed with it.  After a time of walking and working in this place, I started feeling like the newcomer. 

I have been blessed with years that count up to be just a shade more than three score and ten.  And while it might seem like a long, long time to my young grandchildren, it is a mere spit in the wind compared to some of the things which are all around me.  Two sycamore trees down on the edge of the branch remind me every day that they have seen many a story fleshed out in this place.  Once in awhile an old piece of fence or a tool lost years ago will re-surface from the dirt to remind me I am not the first here, nor will I be the last.  I am but one of many who have lived here.

 

Being midst the creation every day has not only brought me to a new appreciation for each day, but it has also given me a new perspective in which to live.  I have always known my days are numbered.  The Word by which I have sought to guide me through the decades tells me this truth, but here midst so many things which seem permanent compared to those of us who have walked for a few days in this place, life is lived differently.  Without any sense of being morbid, each day is like living in the middle of Ash Wednesday.  Everything around me seems to live forever, but everything dies to return to the dust.  So will I.  Ah, but to be here under the sycamore tree is a wonderful thing!