the giving tree

For a little while, the tree held the things people needed to set down...and lift up. 

Across from the hearth at Two Feathers, in front of one of the storefront windows, stood an artificial Christmas tree.

It wasn't there only for Christmas.

Its branches were lit with small antique-white lights, giving that corner of the room a gentle glow.

Beside it were small tags we had cut by hand.

Twine.

A few pens.

And a simple invitation.

Visitors were welcome to write a prayer, a wish, or an intention on one of the tags and hang it from the tree.

They could write their name.

Or not.

They could tell us what it meant.

Or keep that entirely to themselves.

The tree didn't require an explanation.

It simply offered somewhere to place what they were carrying.

WHAT GREW ON THE BRANCHES

Over time, the tree filled.

Some people wrote prayers for themselves.

Others wrote for someone they loved.

There were wishes for health.

For a home.

For work.

For peace.

For love.

For understanding.

Some intentions were probably written after a great deal of thought.

Others may have been only a few words hurriedly placed on paper.

Some people wanted desperately for something to change.

Some were hoping for something to begin.

Some may simply have needed somewhere outside themselves to put a thought that had become too heavy to carry alone.

And one by one, those little tags found their places among the lights.

From across the room, you couldn't know what they said.

You simply saw a tree covered in pieces of paper.

But when you knew what they held...

it looked different.

WITHOUT A NAME

I loved that a name was never required.

There was something important about that.

A prayer did not become more worthy because we knew who wrote it.

A hope didn't require a signature.

Someone could walk through the door, write what was in their heart, tie it to a branch—

and leave.

No questions.

No explanation.

No need to return later and tell us what happened.

For a while, the tree would hold it.

Perhaps sometimes that is enough.

ACROSS FROM THE HEARTH

There is something I understand differently now about where the tree stood.

Directly across from the hearth.

On one side of the room:

the things we hoped for.

On the other:

the fire.

We didn't deliberately arrange some grand metaphor.

It was simply where things belonged in the room.

But at the end of each year, those two places came together.

The tags were gathered from the branches.

And they were read aloud.

The names, when there were names.

The prayers.

The wishes.

The intentions.

The hopes someone had trusted to that little tree months before.

One after another.

They were witnessed.

And then...

they were released into the fire.

RELEASING ISN'T THE SAME AS FORGETTING

There is something beautiful about making a wish.

There is also something beautiful about knowing when to open your hand.

We couldn't promise that every prayer would be answered in the way someone hoped.

We couldn't make every illness disappear.

Find every home.

Repair every relationship.

Provide every job.

Bring peace to every frightened heart.

That was never ours to do.

What we could do was make a place for the asking.

A place where someone could say:

This matters to me.

And where, even anonymously, that mattered enough to be held.

Then, when the year had traveled as far as it could travel, we could read those words aloud one final time...

and give them back to something larger than ourselves.

Fire.

Prayer.

God.

The universe.

Hope.

Whatever that release meant to the person who had written the words.

I STILL THINK ABOUT THOSE BRANCHES

I wonder sometimes about the people behind those tags.

Which prayers were answered?

Which lives changed directions?

Who found the job?

Who found the home?

Who healed?

Who discovered that what they had wished for was not ultimately what they needed?

Who was still waiting when the tag entered the fire?

I'll never know.

Perhaps I was never supposed to.

The Giving Tree wasn't about knowing the ending.

It was about honoring the asking.

For a little while, beneath those antique-white lights, hundreds of human hopes were allowed simply to exist beside one another.

Named and unnamed.

For ourselves and for others.

Ordinary and enormous.

Each occupying one small branch.

Each worthy of being held.

And at year's end—

each worthy of being spoken aloud before being released.

Some things we carry until we find somewhere safe enough to set them down.

For a little while, the tree held them.