Proof The Bible Is True

How many times had I stood in just this spot, waiting for the bus? And yet in all that time I’d never noticed—never really noticed—the beautiful tree that stood beside me.

 

I was running late for work as usual that spring morning after a good rain. Styling my hair always seemed to take longer than I anticipated. I rushed up to the neighborhood bus stop and brushed against a low-hanging branch. Water showered over me. Ugh, I thought. Somebody really should trim this tree.

 

As I shook off the droplets from my hair, I looked up. And up. And up. The tree towered above the attic of a two-story house. Her trunk was stout—too wide to get my arms around. She was quite a tree. Maybe her spray was just a friendly “Howdy, neighbor,” and I forgave her for messing up my hair. The bus pulled up, and I plucked off a cluster of almond-shaped leaves before boarding.

 

When I learned the tree was a honey locust, I gave her a name. “Mrs. Honey Locust” I’d call her, because she seemed old and wise, like a grandmotherly angel. Now that I’d made her acquaintance, I looked forward to seeing her every day, rain or shine. “Thanks for the shade, Mrs. Honey Locust,” I said on hot summer mornings. She responded with a wave of her branches. In the fall, she showered me with tiny golden leaves. Winter snow coated her in a flannel nightgown. She made waiting at the bus stop an adventure.

 

One day last August, I got to the bus stop early to be sure I wouldn’t be late for a hair appointment. I was desperate for a trim. “Hi, Mrs. Honey Locust!” I said, pressing my hand to her trunk. I heard a chirp from my bag and pulled out my phone.

 

“Severe weather warning for Johnson County,” the text read. “Wind gusts up to 80 mph. Seek shelter.”

 

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