LONG LIVE THE FATHERS

my father is an oak tree

My father is an oak tree. And the thing about oak trees, they have this way of befriending time. Unlike so many of us that see time as an opponent, oak trees don’t run from its influence.

They share in the nature of God by becoming a companion of the unpredictable, and in return they are gifted with rings.

On every birthday. Glorious markings of what they’ve been brought through. Like tattoos on your insides, murals of braille. Every brushstroke from the hand of time himself.

There are some who seek youth forever, hiding every wrinkle and concealing the effects of growing old. Wanting to forget that they have survived, that every year is something earned.

I’m familiar enough with the pattern of oak trees to know my father has earned some rings, but usually you don’t see those until the tree comes down. You just trust that the one who made you is the one who forms you and you yield to time.

You let the artist do their work unbothered because it’ll all be revealed one day.

And that pattern is how my father’s son ended up with visions that were eerily similar to his old dreams.

But my father—like oak trees—has been given another gift.

You see oak trees have bark that starts off smooth and thin. As the tree grows, its bark grows thick and furrowed, literally growing so strong that it wrinkles. And the furrowed bark cries out to any onlooker: Can you see? Do you hear?

My father—like oak trees—remembers the bark of his youth, but it’s been shed. It needed to be. There would have been no other way for him to get here.

And today he stands. Tethered to the soil. Unshakeable. With rings as trophies awaiting him in heaven, and smile wrinkles and weathered skin awaiting him on earth. Not as a blemish or byproduct of aging, but like the oak tree, a mark of endurance and survival.

In medieval royal tradition you would hear subjects chanting: Long live the king, declaring that their king’s reign or legacy would endure.

Some mornings I hear the trees cry out:

Long live the fathers
May their bark grow furrowed and strong
And may they receive their trophies with grace

Happy Father’s Day y’all.

—JG