The Trees Still Grow in Winter

Dates to remember are so important. My husband, Frank, was meticulous with recording them. Our first meeting, our first date, our first kiss. Then there are the dates you never want to happen, yet they become a part of your life. As I watched the calendar grow closer, this year was dreaded more than ever. Time keeps moving, though it feels like a very important part of me ended on December 2, 2020 – the day Frank died.

I’ve girded my loins, put on my armor and trudged through the last two anniversaries, trying to treat it as merely a day on the calendar whose outcomes are, by normal reasoning, dissimilar every year. For this one I was defenseless. Three years. Why was I reacting this way, anticipating pain rather than summoning strength? I consider myself to be a minister of hope. I am supposed to be the healer, not the broken. Am I nothing but a fraud? Or was this date a deadline, telling me it’s been long enough?

The vaporous fog of the morning of December 2nd conjured up worldly interruptions layered with predicted emotion only serving to exaggerate the pool of tears no one knew I had already cried this week. Fortunately, the few texts I received from those acknowledging the day, kept me from sinking into a pit of complete desolation. I went to the cemetery.

When I arrived, I sat in the car, finishing my rosary in honor of this, Frank’s feast day. Although a few weeks early to place, I brought a Christmas wreath to decorate his grave. Carefully maneuvering to protect it from the Kansas wind, memories came with his voice. Clearly, I heard, “You’ll figure this out.” 

When our relationship was young, it seemed as if introductory dinner engagements came weekly. It was important to Frank to share his personal relationships, both current and those of the past. Most of these, high profile business leaders. 

Different people, yet many shared a similar story. “The greatest thing that probably ever happened to me was because of this man….“ Often involving some kind of crisis, they often explained, “Frank could have given me the answer to fix it in ten minutes and boom, it would have been done. But noooo. He made me sit in his office for sometimes up to an hour, hashing out the whole scenario. Talking back and forth with his questions. Oh, his questions. He was teaching me and leading me into making good decisions. More importantly, he was coaching me to be a true leader. He gave me the confidence I needed and changed my life forever.” 

Frank’s world was big and it scared me. I didn’t feel as if I belonged, yet when he held my hand, I felt safe, ready to step forward. Ready to handle something new. 

I proceeded to walk to the back side of our stone, where inscribed is the favorite prayer of both of us: The Prayer of St. Francis of Assisi. I prayed. As I gazed through the misty fog at the surroundings, I heard his voice again. “The trees still grow in winter.”

I thought how ridiculous that Frank would tell me about trees, but the words were something I understood. “The trees still grow in winter.” Maybe that is not so crazy. For it is through Frank I learned total surrender. Surrender to love. Surrender to God’s love. God speaks to us in the familiar voices. He delivers messages in ways we understand. 

Still, I longed to feel Frank’s genuine presence. As I drove toward the exit of the cemetery, I laid my hand open across the armrest the way we used to hold hands while driving, committed to do whatever together. I stopped the car and closed my eyes. Suddenly, my heart felt flush the way it used to. There was no doubt he was with me. 

The evening came, and no, I couldn’t hold away the tears. I missed being the center of someone’s world. I missed having someone that I, too, lived for. Somehow, I knew he was letting me cry because that is what I needed. Figuring it out is a process. 

I thought about the dark and the dank of the day. Of how the wet cold bites just a little harder. Then my musings turned to the trees. I was happy to assume they don’t feel pain as I wondered if it would hurt to feel your bark stretched and buds forming within tiny limbs as they do in the winter. 

On the contrary, we as humans feel pain. Emotional pain as well as physical. Then I realized, although I am in some sort of winter of life, I too, am growing. It just cannot be seen and sometimes felt for what it is - growth. Unlike the seasons, there is no timeline to heal, to grow or morph into someone with greater perspective. It takes time. 

When you love, you grow, and most likely there will be pain. However, through it all, beauty will resurface. It might not be in the way we expect, but nothing ever stays the same. I think of a tree with a broken branch, and how the other branches grow around what has been removed. It literally redesigns itself to compensate for loss. It still can end up a magnificent tree, providing shade to the weary. There is purpose here. There is a purpose for those of us with significant loss. 

Frank is right. I will figure this out the best I can. And God will never fail to use whatever means to show me. That is a hope I can rely on.

December 3, 2023