April 25, Fruit Trees, And the End of Time

My Dad died today. 

Well, not today-today. Today was the 22nd anniversary of his death. 

I didn’t realize it; I forgot. Last night I stayed with my Mom en route to a pastor a conference in Dallas. This morning I decided to take the back roads to the Interstate. I drove right past the cemetery, realized it, and quickly decided to turn around, go back and have a moment, thinking, remembering, and lamenting the time we didn’t have together, the stories we didn’t get to share, the advice he never got to pass down, and that he didn’t meet his second, third and fourth grandchildren. 

His stone is in the back row - wonderful irony since he insisted on sitting in the second row in front of the pulpit on Sunday mornings, and spent his whole adult life in front of a classroom full of kids as a teacher - and the first column closest to the north boundary. It's dark reddish brown granite with MEYER highlighted in white. On the right is Mom's name and birthdate, the space for date of death patiently waiting to be recorded. On the left is Dad, Walter A. Meyer - October 2, 1943 - April 25, 2000. Media vita in morte sumus, the ancient liturgy sang. Yes, in the midst of life we are in death, yet below both names is a single line filled with promise and Christian hope: I know that my Redeemer lives. 

The church owns approximately 10 acres, as I recall, with the largest parts being (formerly) pastureland, the school and church buildings, a soccer field, and the cemetery – in reverse order of size. Come to think of it, the cemetery may be at least as large if not larger than the soccer field. After all, it holds over 125 years of membership within it’s boundaries, thirteen decades of the histories of the saints of God who called the hill of Zion their church home. The Populus Zion, the cemetery of Zionst Euangelische Luteraner Kirche, the church triumphant in loci, now residents who never complain about the weeds or dried up flowers, but whose bodies rest in blissful slumber even as their souls celebrate the beginning of eternity (how can eternity have a beginning? Yes.) with Jesus. 

My Dad is there. Well, his body is, anyway, beneath several feet of granite chips on top of caliche and dirt stacked on top of his vault. Know what’s cool? When Jesus returns, He’s going to void the 100-year leak proof guarantee on that vault when He raises the bodies of the faithful, just as He did for Lazarus, just as He Himself did, this promising the same to all others who die in faith of Him as Savior. Christ, the first fruits. If He’s first, others will follow. Dad will follow. 

Earlier, I said the church owns this large hunk of property. We used to live there, in one of three houses: a parsonage (next to the church), another teacherage, and our house next to the soccer field (it was a softball field then) which was between our house and the cemetery. You could see the cemetery from our house. Now, the house is gone. The driveway remains, as does the garage. Seeing this from the cemetery parking lot, I drove to the old house location, parked the car, and tried to place where things were in 2000. 

I got my bearings, and as I looked around, I recognized five special things: a pecan tree, an oak tree, a hackberry tree, and off to the side of the garage what I thought was a peach tree. I helped Dad plant each of those back when I was a kid in elementary school or high school. The hackberry tree was planted in the front yard when my brother was maybe 4 or 5 – Mom has a picture of me “planting” him in the hole we dug. I remember I cut my finger badly, trying to prune a “sucker” off the pecan tree in the back yard with my pocket knife, not realizing the blade was upside down and driving the blade into my finger tip. It was planted near the septic drain line and caused fits with the roots growing into the tile, but he refused to get rid of the tree. We dug out the tile and replaced it with a hunk of PVC and rubber “boot.” I assume the statute of limitations had passed on any violations that may have caused. And the peach tree was watered by lugging water 5 gallons at a time. 

If you counted, that’s four. I said there were 5 things. The 5th is the stump of a giant box elder tree that I climbed when I was a kid. I remember it as huge, but having seen pine trees in East Texas, and growing up myself, it probably wasn't that huge. I guess it died. These things happen. It was felled, cut down about 6 feet off the ground, leaving an impressively tall stump that was then carved into a cross. A shoot will come forth from the stump…

Tonight I’m at a pastor a retreat called Doxology, a respite retreat for clergy who fought the good fight of faith during the pandemic. I fared better than many, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. Physically, well, let’s just say my belt had to be adjusted for COVID. In our evening prayer, the pastor reminded us of something attributed to Martin Luther. When asked “what would you do if you knew tomorrow was your last day in earth,” his answer was, “Plant a tree.”

I guess that’s what Dad was doing all those years ago. No one knows the day or the hour of our death. We live each day by faith. So, Dad planted trees. It was good to see them still standing, doing reasonably well without someone caring for them by lugging watering buckets and dragging hoses. Maybe some day I’ll stop in the fall and get a couple pecans and peaches and try to grow my own tree from these that Dad planted. 

And, if my son asks why I’m being such an old, romantic fart and planting a tree at a place we don’t own, either, I know my answer. 

I’ll say, “Well, son, we have to plant a tree because the world might end tomorrow. It’s what your Grandpa did. Maybe some day you can plant a tree with your son and tell him about your crazy old man, too.”