I have many fond memories of that place, but my favorite memories are all centered around that cottonwood tree. My younger brother, John, and I spent many days climbing and playing in the tree with friends. I can still remember a place in the tree where four branches split off of the main trunk and formed a perfect place for an eleven year old boy to stand, with relative safety, hanging onto the branches as the wind gently pushed the tree back and forth in a two or three foot sway.
From that spot, high in the tree, you could see the top of the chimney on our two story house. It was a perfect lookout spot to keep watch for enemy invaders, and in the summer, when the leaves were full and green, you could easily go unnoticed by the people passing by on the sidewalk below. It was a place where a growing boy could go to be alone and think about stuff.
At some point in time, my friend John Logan and I decided we would like to build a tree house in the tree. We schemed and designed an elaborate plan for an amazing tree house. We searched out the neighborhood for supplies and materials, and when we were confident we could really make it happen, it fell on me, to ask permission.
I figured Mom was the easier one to approach so I tried her first. Mom, however, (more wisely than she realized) told me I should ask my father. A question of this magnitude demanded a face-to-face meeting with Dad, who was at work down at the church. And so I embarked, alone, on one of the longest two or three block walks of my life.
I can still remember walking very slowly, planning my argument, pleading my case over and over in my mind, bracing myself for objections or even rejection, but hoping beyond hope for favor. It was without a doubt the biggest request that I had ever made of my father, at least as far as I could remember. I entered the church in reverential fear.
Somehow, I managed to get my request from my heart to my mouth. I braced myself for the response. The answer came back quickly and simply, “Yes.”
The rest is a blur. I’m sure I must have thanked him and I probably walked quietly out of the church, but the next thing that I actually remember was running and jumping and hollering, with inexplicable joy, all the way back to the house to share the great news with my friend!
Did we build it? Absolutely!
Was it everything we envisioned it would be? Absolutely not!
But that was probably more due to a lack of available materials (or financing to acquire them) rather than a lack of desire or willingness on our part.
I wish I knew how to really explain to you what a great gift my father gave me that day. He probably didn’t (and still doesn’t) fully comprehend it either. But I knew. And even today it means the world to me that he said yes.
So, in reading my little story, you might be able to see why it is easy for me to understand God as a Heavenly Father. You see, I grew up with a natural father who wanted to do good things for me, who took care of me, who disciplined me as I needed it, and who nurtured and loved me. But my dad not only saw to it that I had what I needed, he even allowed me to do things that were desires of my heart! And all I had to do . . . was ask.
“If you then, being evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father who is in heaven give good things to those who ask Him!”
--Matthew 7:11 (NKJ)
(Author's note: I left Delta in 1968 and have not been able to go back since. My parent's visited in 2004 and took the pictures that I've included here. The first is of the cottonwood tree, more than 36 years later, and the second, of the church where Dad had ministered.)
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