The Willow Tree

When I was only about 5 or 6 years old, I found myself in a bit of trouble.  At this point in life I cannot recall what the exact infraction was, but I do remember it involved my mother.  I also remember that it was not the normal, everyday incident, but rather one that led to the infamous words, "We will deal with this when your daddy gets home."  Whatever happened that day, I was sent to my room to consider my actions and begin my rehabilitation and eventual reentry into society.

I grew up in East Detroit, Michigan, where we lived in a very humble single-story home with an unfinished attic.  After my brother arrived, the attic was finished by my father to become an extra bedroom (which I would occupy) and an office/sitting room with a television.  In my room was a window with a view of the alley and the adjoining parking lot.  Every year I would plant my elbows on the bedroom window and look for Santa Clause to come calling.  It occurred to me fairly early in life that we did not have a chimney, but I was comforted by my father's explanation that Santa could come in through the front door of homes not outfitted with a fireplace.  However, I was convinced that he would still land on the roof since that was his preferred method of entry.  I was sure I could hear the sleigh bells at least one Christmas Eve, but this was not to be one of those visits to the window.  Instead I sweated out the time until my father's imminent arrival at home for my inevitable departure from this life. 

Around dinner time heard what I had been dreading: it was my father’s Chevy.  He had arrived and my fate was sealed.  I listened to the engine stop, the car door close, the steps to the front door and the final moments of his expected peaceful evening drift away as he kissed my mother and asked, "how was your day?"  The sound that followed was the worst-case-scenario.  Dead silence.  The words coming from my mother were too soft to be heard.  Perhaps what I had done had been so awful that it could only be spoken of in a whisper.  But I could tell she was conveying the whole terrible truth of my escapade.  As the words poured from my mother, I could hear my dad taking deep breaths followed by long, arduous exhales similar to that of a man who has just been told the house he just bought needs a new roof.  Then I heard, "Have you already punished him?"  I screamed in my subconscious, "Yes, father, yes.  He has been punished enough and has seen the error of his ways.  Go easy on the poor boy."  It was not to be.

Dad walked up the steps, around the corner into my room with a look of sheer disappointment combined with shock as though I had knocked off a liquor store.  "What do you have to say for yourself," he asked.  Now this was an interesting question.  I had many things coming to mind.  I was framed.  It wasn't really me.  Momentary lapse of reason.  It was Col. Mustard in the Library with the candlestick.  I had to come up with something quickly.  But all I could find to say was, "I don't know."  Like a sheep before the shearer, so stood I in front of my father without uttering a word except the mutterings of a condemned man with no recourse and no hope of a last minute stay.  I was sent immediately to the backyard to procure a switch from the resident willow tree.  Many times I had played under the same tree.  Its shade had provided respite from the midday sun.  It was my friend.  Now it just seemed to laugh at me and sway back and forth as if to say, "Nanner, nanner, naaa-neeer."  I pulled my switch and headed for the back door where the wages of my actions awaited.

As I walked across the backyard my mind raced grasping the gravity of my situation.  The circumstances called for something new, something cunning; a plan so perfect that my future would be transformed in my favor.  I found no such plan, but I did say, "I am not taking a whipping."  Had I really said that?  Was that really my voice?  It was!  My father looked at me like I had two heads.  After a long pause, he asked me who was to take my punishment.  Who?  What?  I did not expect this line of questioning. I stood there, perplexed and utterly confused.  Could we not just say someone had been punished and move on with our lives?  "Someone has to take the punishment for what you have done.  Who should it be," he asked.  So I said the first thing that popped into my head: "You will."  Without so much as a flinch my father handed me back the wooden menace and told me to go ahead.  All at once a million thoughts raced through my head.  My plan had backfired on me.  I didn't want my dad to take my punishment.  I didn't want to take it either.  But how could I possibly punish my father for what I had willfully done?  He was innocent.  I had no right to expect him to take the hurt upon himself that was rightfully mine. 

As I stood there wondering what to do, hands trembling, lower lip quivering, I began to feel a lump in my throat and my forehead began to burn.  Tears built up in my eyes and soon I was reduced to a fit of weeping over the thought of my father taking the full brunt of my iniquities.  I was ready for him to do it, even momentarily thankful when he offered.  But I was not ready for the sight of his back turned to me ready to receive my punishment by my own hands just because he knew the price must be paid and he loved me enough to stand in my place.  In that moment I understood the price of my disobedience and the incomprehensible love of my father.

Peace