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My Father, Maker of the Trees
I had only been in the trees two days, and my determination turned to anger. The uneven bark cut
my legs as I tried to climb. I pressed every muscle in my body against the awkward trunk of the tree until it anchored me to reach for the next branch. I felt like all of nature was against me. As I looked down I could see rotting bodies littering the roads, the same roads that used to carry laughter as children would make their way to school and mothers would walk to sell the morning milk.
Alone with my thoughts, I really began to question, Why am I trying to live? Why are my uncles fighting to survive? We knew each day that thousands more were dying. I was agonized by the thoughts going around and around in my head. I doubt any of my brothers and sisters have survived. Each day only bring more death. I know I will never see my beloved neighbors and friends again. Maybe we are the only ones left from my village. If we do survive, what reason would there be to live? How would we even try to make sense of life again>
Just as night and day became neutral in my mind - neither was any better than the other; hope didn't rise with the sun or grow in the dark - so did life and death.
The day moved along slowly and then slower still. Around midday I heard a voice outside of myself telling me that I was supposed to accept the branches holding me up as a sovereign friend. I became more grateful for their protection from the reach of the devils below.
Trying to clear my mind, I focused on the tree. I chipped away at the bark around a branch within reach and watched the balmy sap rescue the wound. I thought about how it knew what to do, hoping this might be proof there was a maker of trees. How did it know to release the sap? Who was telling it to? I noticed a patch of dead branches to my left, where the enemy could just look up and clearly see me, so I started to pull from the thick cluster of branches behind me, throwing the needles and twigs on top of one another as best as I could with one arm.
Tiny insects ran through the maze of the bark, darting back and forth with purpose. I tried to follow just one to see how long I could trace its steps. A spider began to spin a web from a small branch above me. The silken thread dropped in front of me, and I wondered how such a small thread could hold the spider up as it bounced around to three different corners. Out it swung in front of me, back and forth until I could see a pattern. The spider crawled on my hand and paused, as if it were looking up at its creative work. This tree was a fortress to both the spider and me.
I began to list the attributes of the tree in my mind: Strong, Alive. A refuge. A majestic tower. And I wondered about the tree maker. Was he those things too?
Extract taken from My Father, Maker of the Trees by Eric Irivuzumugabe with Tracey D. Lawrence
Used with permission from Baker Publishing.
