Robert Frost's Bloom (short story about unity)

My Granddad planted a tree when my mom was born. He transplanted the sapling from his childhood home across the state. It was just a normal, average oak tree. But he loved that tree. 

"One of these days I'm going to die," Granddad would say. "And I want you to make my coffin out of Robert Frost."

The tree was named Robert Frost. 

Well, Granddad died five years ago. And that old tree is still rooted in the front yard. Apparently people don't just have their own coffins made anymore. We buried him in a silver casket. Far from his wishes. But what could we do?

After the funeral the family started fighting. Right there at the lunch. Soil hadn't even filled in the hole of his grave yet. They fought for five years without stopping. It was all over money and things. Stupid if you ask me. Every holiday it would start all over again. One uncle was suing an aunt over the family china. A cousin no longer spoke to his mother because of $1,000. Harsh words spoken from mouths full of mashed potatoes. Angry gestures from hands holding a forkful of beans. 

When I got weighed down by all of the fighting I would go outside, sit under Robert Frost's branches. In the summer they were heavy with leaves and acorns. In the fall they held orange and red flags that waved in the wind. In the winter the bare limbs twisted and curled their way up toward the sky. 

The family gathered for dinner on Easter. It was the fifth Easter after his death.

"I'm not trying to fight you on this, Edwin," Aunt Leigh steamed. "But you must understand. Daddy wanted us to sell the estate."

"Leigh, you're sounding awfully money grubbing." Uncle Edwin.

"But if you read the will, it clearly states what we're to do with the house."

"Exactly. He wanted us to make money off it. Do you know how much we could make by turning it into a Bed and Breakfast?"

"Now who sounds money grubbing?"

"Well," my mother. "I think it would be nice to let Elle live on the property. You know, keep it up and all that."

"Mom," I said. "I don't know that I'd like that."

"Besides," Edwin. "It wouldn't be fair. Elle getting it and us...well...I'd feel a little cheated."

"Oh, no." My mother sipped her coffee. "We'd expect Elle to pay rent."

"Well," Leigh. "I just think that you're all reading the will wrong."

"Is it an interpretation issue?" I asked. "Why is it such a problem?"

"Oh, honey. You really don't understand. You're too young."

"But, mom, I'm 35."

"Uh huh. Just leave this to us to figure out."

"You don't seem to be doing that so well now, are you?" I walked out. I wanted to sit under Robert Frost.

It felt like nothing would ever make my family get things together. They would fight over the house until that was settled. Then they would find something else to argue over. And none of it really mattered at all.

How could I tell them that I carried the next generation in my womb? It might cause more problems. They didn't approve of my husband and his family. The lima bean sized offspring didn't need to enter this family. She or he didn't deserve to watch aunts and uncles and grandparents clawing each other apart with hateful words and spite.

I walked outside. The air was sharp, just cold enough for a sweater. But the sun was shining. I tipped my face up to catch the warm glow.

The sun was behind Robert Frost's branches. I had to squint as I walked toward my sitting spot. I lowered myself, letting my back rub against the course bark. I rested my body against the solid trunk. The smell of the tree and the earth triggered my mind to memories of childhood. Climbing into the limbs, reading books under the shade of leaves, running rings around the base, leaping over roots. I closed my eyes and absorbed the silence and calm.

After a few moments my heart stopped thudding, my anxious jitters subsided. I realized that I no longer cared what happened with the money or the house or the china. All that was worthless. I just wanted to sit with my family and share memories of my Granddad. To tell stories and recite his wise words. To let the next generation in on how great a man he was. All the rest was just a vapor. It was nothing.

I looked up and saw the gold dots of bloom on the tips of Robert Frost's fingers. The hope of spring nestled in my heart.

Something new was coming.

Sorry, I don't understand what you're saying...

The road from Santiago, D.R. to Quanaminth, Haiti is a bumpy one. Up and down mountains. Past huts and towns. It's quite the journey.

I was on my way with a bunch of Dominican ministers to build a school. But they had other plans. Here's a conversation from the van as we were jostled along...

"Hey, when we get there we'll need someone to cook for us."

"Yup."

"Well, who's going to make our meals?"

"Uh, why do you think we brought Susie?"

What? They wanted me to cook? I laughed it off. Just because I was the only female on the trip didn't mean they expected me to cook. Right? RIGHT? Seriously...

Well, I was sent straight away to the dark, Haitian kitchen. I was given the groceries: chicken (with feathers, talons and head), beans (not in a can, mind you), plantains and the biggest vat of oil you can imagine. I had no clue what I was supposed to do.

And the lady in the kitchen only spoke Creole. All I could say in her tongue was "I don't speak Creole" and "avocado". She tried. Poor lady. She talked to me almost non-stop. And I smiled, trying to communicate through charades. She understood by my inability to pluck the chicken that she needed to do that. And when I nearly chopped off my thumb, well, she showed me how to peal the plantain. Somehow a meal was made. A dinner that didn't cause explosive diarrhea or death. And even after all that time, I still had no idea what the woman was trying to say to me.

Sometimes I feel that way about denominational differences. Thrust into a debate, unfamiliar territory for me, I get all tensed up. I make a fool out of myself. I get all nervous and sweaty and I break out in hives. It's not pretty. Not at all. I don't want to be there. I'm not wanted there. And nothing much is accomplished when all involved refuse to communicate, choosing only to rant and rave. Using Scripture (often far out of context) and self-righteousness (not the good kind) we plow over each other when, really, we probably agree on more than we know. We just don't take the time to understand one another.

I was raised in a United Methodist church. I attended a predominately Christian Reformed private school. I went to a Restoration Movement Bible college (Church of Christ/Christian Church). I took what I was taught in my Sunday School, Bible and Theology classes and believed everything I heard (oops). I didn't allow myself to doubt. I looked down on Catholics and Charismatics (equal opportunity snobbery). And I refused to think of things differently. I thought I was the bomb diggidy. (do people even say that anymore?)

But then, life happened. I was hurt. I saw how damaging it is when the Body of Christ tears at its own flesh. And it broke me. I realized that I dismissed others simply because I didn't understand them. I couldn't speak their language and didn't know that I should try.

It was only when I watched them moving, when I looked into the fruit of my brothers and sisters that I saw something amazing and beautiful. I saw that we all, deep down, desire the same thing. We desire to be the people of Jesus. We want to emulate Him, shining from our core with His love. We are family. Jesus' blood covers all of us.

Honestly, I still don't know what a lot of you are saying. I have to admit, I disagree with some of you. Regardless, we have a link to one another. And we've got to figure out how to spend the rest of forever together. So, let's at least play a game of charades and learn how to work together!