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January 1, 2010

Time to reflect. That would be my answer to the question: "What do you like most about the year-end holidays?"

Oh, the food is good—those delectable, fattening morsels that make Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's so special. So are the parties and the people . . . the songs, the smiles, the smells. Each weaves its way into the fabric of our minds in such a beautiful manner that we live in the warmth of them for days. Sometimes months.

But the best those traditional holidays can offer, in my opinion, is time to reflect. To stand in front of the full-length mirror of memory and study the scene. Thoughtfully. Silently. Alone. At length. To trace the outline of the past without the rude interruption of routine tasks. To walk along the surf or stroll through a mountain pathway, taking time to stop and listen. And think. To sit by a crackling fireplace with all the lights out, staring into the heat, and letting thoughts emerge, drift, and linger. To turn over in the mind a line out of a poem. To hear some grand music played at sufficient volume that all petty noises and worries are submerged beneath the waves of stimulating sound.

Maybe it's part of what Charles Wesley meant by being "lost in wonder, love, and praise." A kind of solitary worship. An extended, unhurried leisure yielding rich benefits and deep insights. Invariably, those occasions leave me feeling grateful to God. Often I end up thanking Him specifically for something or someone that He provided in the yesterday of my life that makes my today much more meaningful.

It happened again last week. The day had been relaxing and fun. Night fell. One by one my family slipped into sleep. I put a couple more logs into the fireplace, slid into my favorite chair, and read for well over an hour. I came across a few thoughts put together by a long-time leader in the World Vision ministry—Ed Dayton. His words sent me back many, many years. Ed mentioned watching the short film called "The Giving Tree," a simple, fanciful piece about a tree who loved a boy.

They played hide 'n' seek in his younger years. He swung from her branches, climbed all over her, ate her apples, slept in her shade. Such happy, carefree days. The tree loved those years of the boy's childhood.

But the boy grew and spent less time with the tree. On one occasion the young man returned. "Come on, let's play," invited the tree . . . but the lad was only interested in money. "Take my apples and sell them," said the tree. He did . . . and the tree was happy.

He didn't return for a long time, but the tree smiled when he passed by one day. "Come, play, friend. Come, play!" But the boy—now full grown—wanted to build a house for himself. "Cut off my branches and build your house," she offered. He did, and once again the tree was happy.

Years dragged by. The tree missed the boy. Suddenly, she saw him in the distance. "Come on, let's play!" but the man was older and tired of his world. He wanted to get away from it all. "Cut me down. Take my large trunk and make yourself a boat. Then you can sail away," said the tree. And that's exactly what he did . . . and the tree was happy.

Many seasons passed—summers and winters, windy days and lonely nights—and the tree waited. Finally, the old man returned . . . too old, too tired to play, to pursue riches, to build houses, or to sail the seas. "I have a pretty good stump left, my friend. Why don't you just sit down here and rest?" He did . . . and the tree was happy.¹

I stared into the fire. I watched myself pass in review as I grew older with the tree and the boy. I identified with both—and it hurt.

How many Giving Trees have there been in my life? How many have released part of themselves so I might grow, accomplish my goals, find wholeness and satisfaction, and reach beyond the tiny, limited playground of my childhood? So, so many. Thank you, Lord, for each one. Their names could fill this page.

Now I, like the tree, have grown up. Now it's my turn to give. And some of that hurts. Apples, branches, sometimes the trunk. My rights, my will  . . . and even my children and grandchildren.

So much to give. Thank you, Lord, that I have a few things worth giving. Even if it's a lap to be sat on . . . or the comfort of a warm embrace.

The fire died into glowing embers. It was late as I crawled into bed. I had wept, but now I was smiling as I said, "Good night, Lord." I was a thankful man.

Thankful I had taken time to reflect.

1. Shel Silverstein, The Giving Tree (New York: Harper and Row, 1964).

Excerpted from Growing Strong in the Seasons of Life, Copyright © 1983 by Charles R. Swindoll, Inc. All rights reserved worldwide. Used by arrangement with Zondervan Publishing House.