Papa was a quiet man when I finally met him in 1987. He was 73 years
old, and I was lucky to add him to my family. He stepped right into
my heart, filling the space left behind by my grandfathers.
Papa had grown up in a little town in northeast Florida, eldest of 10
children. He could do it all and probably had done it all at some
point in his life.
Papa didn't talk a lot, but when he did speak, it usually was a story
with some weight to it. It wasn't just an old man rambling on --
there was a lesson to be learned.
I would delight in listening to him tell me stories about my new
husband -- stories of George growing up under his wing. I loved to
hear the stories about George as a young boy spending his weekends in
the north Florida woods hunting with his Papa, or at Papa's gas
station, or helping in the garden behind Papa's house.
Papa was a quiet, religious man. He never was one to preach to
others. Two of his brothers were Pastors at local churches -- he left
the preaching to them. The little comments he made and the stories he
told shed some light into his beliefs and his love of God.
On April 8th, we made a trip to my parents' house for my father's
birthday celebration. My husband was quietly driving the family up
the Turnpike. I was occupied in the front passenger seat by a book,
while the kids were being much too quiet in the back seat engrossed
with a Gameboy and a coloring book.
I noticed out of the corner of my eye that my husband was straining
to look out my window. This startled me, since his eyes should be on
the long road in front of him. I asked him what he was looking at out
the windows, and he quietly replied, "Nothing." His eyes went back to
the road in front of him.
After a few minutes, I looked over at my husband and noticed a tear
running down his cheek. I asked him what was wrong. This time he told
me, "I was just thinking about Papa and a story he used to tell me."
Of course, if it had to do with Papa I needed to know the story, so I
asked him to share it with me.
He said, "When I was about 3 years old, Papa took me out in the
backyard and told me that the Pine trees know when it is Easter."
I had no idea what he meant by that, so I pressed him for more
information. He continued on... "The Pine trees start their new
growth in the weeks before Easter -- if you look at the tops of the
Pine trees two weeks before, you will see the yellow shoots. As the
days get closer to Easter Sunday, the tallest shoot will branch off
and form a cross. By the time Easter Sunday comes around, you will
see that most of the Pine trees will have small yellow crosses on the
tallest shoots."
I turned to look out the window and I couldn't believe my eyes. It
was a week before Easter, and you could see all the trees with the
tall yellow shoots stretching to Heaven.
The tallest ones shone in the sunlight like rows of tiny golden
crosses.
Author Unknown
Note from GranGran: Living in the heart of East Texas, I've seen lots of pine
trees. I'll never again look at one in the springtime without thinking of
crosses. Isn't this a wonderful story?
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