|Sabino Canyon-Tucson, Arizona|
"They'll grow," he says. I don't say anything, but I'm not sure.
"We'll give them water, and sunlight," he smiles with a twinkle in his eye,"and these mesquite trees will make it."
"How different could this climate be from Arizona, anyway?"
"Arizona doesn't freeze very often, I've never seen it do so more than a handful of times in all the years I lived there."
"What did you do when it froze?" he asks.
"My parents would cover the fruit trees, but we didn't have a deep freeze."
So we wait. They grow a little. He puts rabbit wire around them to protect them from the rabbits on the prairie. The freeze comes. They die.
"They'll grow," he says. I'm not so sure.
"We'll give them water and sunlight," he half smiles, "and our little boy will swing from these apple trees someday."
So we wait. They grow a little. He puts a fence around our grove. But the wind blasts, and summer unleashes a fury of heat that water cannot keep up with, and several of the trees succumb to a pest.
"They'll grow," he says. I don't say anything. I know he's right. These trees are native to our red dirt prairie land.
"They'll get their own water and sunlight, and there are other trees like this growing here. These elm trees will thrive in the dirt we have. "
So we wait. A few trees become many. We don't have to build a fence around them.
Native trees grow best in the land that is considered their environment.
Just like a tree needs the correct environment to thrive, so does the soul. Is it any wonder then, why I sometimes feel out of place? Like I have to battle, fight to make thrive, and to do what is right?
Like I'm stunted, dying? My soul has to fight to prosper, and live. That part of me doesn't seem like it fits in this world. That is because it doesn't.
My soul was not made for this world but the next. It isn't native to this world.