The Old Oak Tree

Photo Credit


We seem to be establishing a pattern here recently. It looks a little something like this:

Wake up, coffee for me, cereal or oatmeal for the kids.

(I don’t cook breakfast during the week… I’m terrible, I know!)

Throw on some play clothes.

Pretend to do chores, while not accomplishing anything.

Pretend to do school while not accomplishing anything.

Run outside the first chance we get.

Stay there until supper time.

Today, the children have discovered the joys of climbing trees. Not that they haven’t climbed trees before, but there is a huge oak tree sitting in the middle of the field in front of an old cattle barn behind our house and I’ve given them permission to go to it.

The six of them have been in that tree or directly under it for the last three hours. The two youngest have been steadily riding their bikes or chasing butterflies while the others brave the tree heights. They don’t need much to occupy them, do they?


Just 50 years of tree growth.  Smile


Isn’t that just the way things go? Someone, sometime left that little seedling to grow in the middle of a cattle field, not knowing how much joy it would one day bring these six little children who are lucky enough to live near it.

Someone, sometime decided that it was perfectly placed in front of the old cattle barn… perfect enough to leave it and it’s given this exhausted momma have a couple of hours to relax thanks to it’s presence.

Sometimes, we just have to remember these little decisions, the smallest moments of passing compassion will reach far beyond what we could ever imagine.

It was probably more trouble then it was worth for whoever let it grow.

He’d have to mow around it.

It blocks any hope of a straight-shot to the barn doors with a vehicle.

I have no idea who he was or what he thought about it, or why he left it there.

But I’m grateful. 


About beyondmartha

Wife to one, mommy to many, daughter, sister, friend, homemaker, daughter to the King. That's me.

Posted on March 29, 2012, in Introspection. Bookmark the permalink. Leave a comment.

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