The majestic tree stands in glory, shining white against the barren gray of its companions. Planted by the hand of God long before I came to honor its beauty, it graces the winter woods beside the river. For more than twenty years I have watched the sycamore praise God, its arms raised towards heaven in silent prayer. I wonder if the river gently washing the earth beyond its canopy knows today the sycamore’s voice will be silenced. I wonder if today the river will be muddied by the tears of God that mingle with my own.
The holly and the oak are also unaware that killing machines beyond the swell march ever closer to devour them. The sycamore awoke this morning to shine in the sun and give glory to God. In minutes it will be felled to make way for concrete poles that have no arms for glory or hearts for prayer.
I said goodbye to the sycamore as I passed today. I felt I should stand with my friend, to offer comfort as it slipped into memory, but I couldn’t bear to watch. All I could do was say thank you, and I’m sorry. I am so very sorry.
When will we ever learn? When will we ever learn?