I preached about resurrection and the new life, to be fair, just like that day requires. But the framing image changes year by year, and that year, it was about them apples.
Wind back thirty-six months, I was homiletically marveling at the resilience of a dwarf Honeycrisp, one that had been brutally mangled by a stag. Deer being what they are, my plans for the growth of that recent planting didn't matter a bit. New antlers itched for their velvet stripped away, and the sapling was the unfortunate recipient of that desire. It was reduced to nothing more than a branchless stick.
But as that sermon told it, to my surprise and despite it all, the tree was recovering. The bark healing, and a few tender leaves were making their appearance.
Go, little tree, go, I thought. It's the sort of thing that stays with us, those of us who know how hard life can be. I had good-hearted congregants ask, months later, hey, how's that little apple tree doing?
That was three years ago. Though it's grown, it's a bit awkward, with irregular branches and a spotty canopy. It leans a bit to the East, and has grown upwards as fast as it can, a single slender main trunk reaching skyward, as if attempting to depart this wounding earth.
It has also, traumatized as it was, not once offered up even a single blossom. Next to it, the squat Fuji I planted at the same time started producing sweet red apples last year, after blooming every single year. But the Honeycrisp showed no such inclination, year after year. Not a bud. Not even a hint of budding.
Even so, I've tended to it, giving it a nice deep watering now and then when drought parched the soil to dust.
This last week, as I puttered about the yard weeding and amending soil, I went to inspect the trees. The Fuji was a riot of pink-white flower. And my wounded, struggling Honeycrisp?
There, far up the long snaking main trunk, a little couplet of blossoms high out of reach.
Healing takes its own time, and whenever it comes, it's welcome.
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