A Tree Grows In Brooklyn

The tree "likes the poor". I'm not sure how many of you have ever read "A Tree Grows In Brroklyn". I am not so certain that I can even say I've read it. The first time I cracked the pages of Betty Smith's tale, I was but 12 years old. Certainly too young to understand the sociological implications of her class theories or the discussions of depression. But I wasn't too young to understand the Tree.

When I was a small child, I used to read a story in a green book about a tree that loved a child. It cared for it, and loved it, and cried as it grew up. A Tree Grows In Brooklyn I thought, would be the grown-up version of this childhood book. And to a small extent, it was.

The tree loves the poor, protects them and houses them. It reminded them of their childhood, moments both good and otherwise. It was their solace. It comforts them in a way only a constant and quiet presence can.

When I look out into the ocean, I hear and see things that maybe others do not.

The first time I looked out at the ocean at night here, I didn't think about what I usually do when I see the ocean. Most of you know that I am greatly addicted to the ocean. I love it. It remeinds me of so many wonderful things of my childhood. But after I left home for undergrad, the ocean always reminded me of home. But as Tyler and I sat barefoot on the beach last February, I didn't think of my home, I thought about them.

Thinking about where I should go to law school was so confusing, until that moment. At that moment, I stared out into the ocean and realized that somewhere, some young girl was looking out at the same ocean as it lapped her shores. Only, she wasn't trying to decide which educational opportunity was best for her; she was trying to decide if the educated far away would hear her. Somewhere there was a mother and father who looked at the ocean that same night, hoping that its majesty would bring their cries for justice closer to the ears of God. There are children in Africa who look out at the ocean, searching for answers, much like I was. Only the answer to my querry seemed much more obvious.

The ocean loves the poor, it hears their cries and keeps them. The wind loves the oppressed; it brings their cries to the ears of the Lord. "Because of the cry of the oppressed, I will now arise! sayeth the Lord" [Psalm 12]. He hears them, and holds them, and keeps them. But it is also clear that he has sent us to do the WORK of justice.

The ocean watches me and keeps me, reminding me of why I came here. It is my silent protector. It holds my secret: I am afraid. I'm terrified of what it means to give myself over for the sake of the call, and nothing more. But the refuge it holds for me is in the memory of so many voices not lost in the din of the world's self-delusion. There is no place safer in a storm than the eye of the hurricane. There is no where else I'd rather be than in the very hand of God, living His way on His time. As frightening and as abnormal as my everyday choices have become, they are that much more a comfort to me. For I know, that the closer I grow to Him the safer I am. The danger lies not in my going where He calls me, but in calling to Him from another place I chose to go. It really doesn't matter what is to become of me. Perhaps no one will ever really know what I will have done before I die, but what is life if not my graveyard shift? I mean what is it if it's not my time to clock in as a messenger and a soldier, and then clock out when it's time for someone else's turn, so I can go home?