Dining in the Shadow of the Dogwood Tree
This is an expansion and adaptation of a previous post. VAS
In a family gravesite in Mississippi, I have my own little communion of saints. Not saints in the sense of perfect people who all got it right and did it all the right way, but saints in the sense of having made it home, having completed their course and now rest from their labors. Most prominent for me is my father, a good man and an even better father who made a significant down-payment on my future in my four short years with him. He died far too young. But he lives on in memory and story and in the two sons he claimed and did his best to “raise right” in the short time he had. Each year I give special thanks for him and for all those who, in spite of their imperfections and shortcomings, their trials and tribulations, are, for me, saints nonetheless.
There also are my maternal grandfather and grandmother. They were dead long before I was born. I was named after him and I have been told that she was the glue that kept the family together during the depression, working at the cotton mill and keeping watch over a household that included two small girls, my mother and my aunt, an invalid mother, my great grandmother, and two of her sisters who occasionally lived with them – Sally, my great-aunt, who married Pete, an enlisted airman and moved to St. Louis. They travelled the country and had pictures to prove it, but eventually divorced and she moved back. She smoked far too much and died of lung cancer and is buried in the family grave. And then there is Maggie, the great-aunt who lived her life in the spirit of Mae West who always said, “When I’m good, I’m very good, but when I’m bad, I’m better!” Aunt Maggie was a tall woman with beautiful red hair, a salty vocabulary and a questionable reputation who lived to be almost 90. She often told stories of her glory days owning a restaurant with her first husband that included elaborate descriptions of colorful characters who found their way to The Sunset on Highway 51. What she never included though, was any mention of running moonshine which was, I have been told, the real reason so many colorful people frequented this establishment. Later in life, she married a cop and moved to Louisiana. Talk about a change of heart. She made great gumbo and amazing spaghetti and meatballs. She was by no means perfect, but part of the communion and fellowship, nonetheless.
It is a small group, a snapshot of history and heritage, both good and bad, the fabric of my life. Every year I reflect on this colorful communion of saints that in ways both great and small shaped my life. Who are the saints in your communion? Those you are glad are there and those you wish were not. Who have been the people who have shaped your life in meaningful ways? Who have been those who have formed you by teaching you how not to live? Take the time to remember them and offer a prayer of thanks for them all, even the ones who barely made it in. They are a part of the communion as well.
Standing watch close by my family gravesite is a dogwood tree. As a child this tree was a special friend, a playmate of sorts, for in the months immediately after the death of my father, my mother, my brother and I spent many afternoons there. She would go there to sit for a while, a young wife mourning the loss of her husband and we would climb in the crooks of the dogwood tree and swing from its branches. Some days, as the sun would make its way toward the western horizon, the dogwood would cast a long shadow and gently caress the tombstones with its touch, and there, in the shadow of the dogwood, in the midst of a microcosm of the communion of saints, two small boys hungry from climbing would kneel at the feet of their mother and share a sacramental meal of peanut butter crackers and coke.
There is a legend that at the time of crucifixion the dogwood had been the size of the oak and other forest trees. So firm and strong was the tree that it was chosen as the timber for the cross. To be used thus for such a cruel purpose greatly distressed the tree, and Jesus nailed upon it, sensed this. With compassion he said to the tree:
“Because of your regret and pity for my suffering, never again shall the dogwood tree grow large enough to be used as a cross. Henceforth it shall be slender and bent and twisted and its blossoms shall be in the form of a cross–two long and two short petals. And in the center of the outer edge of each petal there will be nail prints, brown with rust and stained with red, and in the center of the flower will be a crown of thorns, and all who see it will remember.” [1]
On this day of remembrance, we gather to dine once again in the shadow of the dogwood tree, to share in a sacramental meal, remembering those who have gone before us, looking to those who surround us still, giving thanks for those who have nurtured us, forgiving those who have failed us and feeding on that which alone can ultimately save us.
So come, climb once again into the arms of grace and swing once again from the branches of God’s sustaining power and presence. Kneel at the foot of the cross…remember…give thanks…and be filled.
In the name of the Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Amen.
[1] http://www.promiseofgod.com/dogwood/
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