HOME FOR A BIRCH TREE
One morning in early April, not far from some abandoned train tracks in the borough of Brooklyn, a tiny seedling popped its head out of a small patch of dirt and rubble and began to very slowly grow.
It seemed like a miracle that anything could grow in that barren place, but still, there it was. It appeared to be an ordinary weed at first. But if you looked closely, you could tell there was something different about it. It was much thicker than a weed. And lighter in color. It was strong. But it was also very flexible. By the end of the summer, it stood almost six-inches high. It was going to become a birch tree! And his name was Bert.
Bert knew how to stand up to the cold and bend in the wind. That’s how he managed to survive the famous blizzard of ’83. The next year, Bert the birch tree was nearly twelve inches high.
But he was worried. As Bert grew a little more each month, he thought, “I wonder where I came from? I don’t know who my father and mother and grandfathers and grandmothers are. I don’t know who my brothers and sisters are. Most of all, I don’t know where Home is!”
That’s when he began to feel a stirring inside him, a spark of faith and hope that must have been so tiny he didn’t know it was there until that moment. It was a special light that came from his father and mother to him. A light that was released the moment he asked where Home was. A light that never left him after that.
But the winters came and went and Bert grew taller and taller without knowing where Home was. He was a strange, beige-colored skinny tree surrounded by much bigger trees that were brown and gray-green, and burnt sienna, and burnt umber and chocolate and russet. But Bert was beige. The only birch tree on either side of the tracks.
To find out what opened Bert's eyes to his home, read Home for a Birch Tree.
One morning in early April, not far from some abandoned train tracks in the borough of Brooklyn, a tiny seedling popped its head out of a small patch of dirt and rubble and began to very slowly grow.
It seemed like a miracle that anything could grow in that barren place, but still, there it was. It appeared to be an ordinary weed at first. But if you looked closely, you could tell there was something different about it. It was much thicker than a weed. And lighter in color. It was strong. But it was also very flexible. By the end of the summer, it stood almost six-inches high. It was going to become a birch tree! And his name was Bert.
Bert knew how to stand up to the cold and bend in the wind. That’s how he managed to survive the famous blizzard of ’83. The next year, Bert the birch tree was nearly twelve inches high.
But he was worried. As Bert grew a little more each month, he thought, “I wonder where I came from? I don’t know who my father and mother and grandfathers and grandmothers are. I don’t know who my brothers and sisters are. Most of all, I don’t know where Home is!”
That’s when he began to feel a stirring inside him, a spark of faith and hope that must have been so tiny he didn’t know it was there until that moment. It was a special light that came from his father and mother to him. A light that was released the moment he asked where Home was. A light that never left him after that.
But the winters came and went and Bert grew taller and taller without knowing where Home was. He was a strange, beige-colored skinny tree surrounded by much bigger trees that were brown and gray-green, and burnt sienna, and burnt umber and chocolate and russet. But Bert was beige. The only birch tree on either side of the tracks.
To find out what opened Bert's eyes to his home, read Home for a Birch Tree.