A few weeks ago, my father, a Chabad rabbi in the state of New Hampshire, texted me an image.
He had gone to visit a close friend who owns 200 acres of land in a small secluded town—a man who is ill and facing the reality of mortality. As they discussed matters of great meaning and what happens when you find your days seem to be more numbered, the man led my father on a walk on his property to show him a tree.
This land isHe is ill and facing the reality of mortality covered in thousands of trees. Acres and acres of sweet-smelling pines, velvet-green moss and tall strong oaks. The trees and the land around it provide home and shelter to animals as large as deer and moose, and as small as squirrels and chipmunks. I
t’s easy to lose yourself among all the trees that mirror each other, one after the other.
But the man pointed out one tree in particular. One tree that was special.
This tree had been condemned to death. Anyone with any knowledge about the natural way of trees would say it should have died. It had bent over completely, flat on the ground, looking death in the eye, closer than it had ever been to being just a pile of wood.