The Little Red Tree

My son and I planted a tree the second summer after his best friend died.

Early in the spring of 2005, I asked Jonathan if he thought it would be a good idea to plant a tree to remember his friend, Kyle. He agreed. I asked Jonathan what kind of tree he thought we should plant. It didn’t take him long to decide. After just a split second, he replied, “a red one.”

His friend Kyle loved red tractors and red barns. A red tree would be perfect. Jonathan and his dad dug the hole in the back yard. Mickey and I added water and packed the dirt back into the hole, making sure the tree was in the ground straight. I watered the tree faithfully, protecting it from drought. I carefully pruned a few branches, sculpting its shape, ever so slightly. Each spring I marvel to see how the little red tree has survived the long, cold winter and I wait anxiously for the leaves to magically appear, almost overnight. The tree is filled with life, it’s is one of God’s most beautiful creations.

As the little red tree grows and transforms itself into a mighty maple, I am comforted by its beauty and its strength. This mighty maple will someday tower above us, have branches that will eventually shade us, and the wind through its branches will cool us from the hot summer sun.

Every single time I mow around the little red tree, I fondly remember Kyle spending quite a bit of time mowing this same lawn. He wasn’t very good about going around the trees without bumping into them. I remember gently reminding him to watch out for the trees. Thinking about him mowing, I quietly laugh just a little to myself and then wipe a tear from my eyes as I make another round past the little red tree, wishing Kyle was still here, offering to mow my lawn.

The little red tree points straight to heaven. And, as I make a final round past this special spot in my yard, I feel that Kyle is probably looking down on me as I mow – making sure I take care not to bump into the little red tree.

The little red tree - as reminder of how beautiful heaven is.