The Blessings of Sycamores

This morning my sycamore trees call out to me.  Of course, they are not mine. The farm belongs more to them than me.  They are the long timers around here.  Perhaps, I call them mine to speak of the relationship I am blessed to have with them.  The truth is the sycamore trees, the farm, and I all belong to Him who created us.  For over fifteen years I have lived within their watch.  They have been here long enough to see others like me walk the land,  put sweat into it, and hope for the blessings of an unseen crop.   They have given me many blessings.  

Many have been the mornings when I have sat on the front porch with a coffee cup steaming to consider the Words God speaks to me through their presence.  There have been those satisfying days of cutting back the privy edge from around their trunks and roots as a way of encouraging their life.  Those trees have huge leaves, leaves big enough to be a mask for the face of a grandson and this old guy who played and laughed as only boys could do while catching the falling leaves on a brisk autumn day.   Blessings.  How I have been blessed by what cannot speak words for ears, but words for the heart.  

The greatest blessing, though, is their presence, their permanence.  They have asked nothing of me; yet, they have blessed me.  I know they, like me, are only here for a speck of history, but then again, they point me toward Who cannot be seen fully.  They speak Words I know come from the Eternal One who dwells in the silence.  I am grateful we share this land and this time together.