It was during one of the hardest times in my life when I found a tree.  It wasn’t that it was hard to find or anything—I had literally driven past it hundreds of times in my whole life, and it was a huge tree.  It stands in Pioneer Park just east of a little log cabin on display for picnickers or interested Highway 14 by-passers.  During the annual Arts Festival, its expansive crown offers a shady respite in the July heat for snow cone eaters and tired babies in strollers.  Many people have leaned against the wide trunk while listening to the lilting flute of Brulé and other music performers on the small stage tucked among craft and food booths.

It was during one of the happiest times in my life when I found a woman.  I actually found her after I serendipitously found her son—or he found me—in the same town where the huge Cottonwood tree lives.  She lived in a suburban split level house in Kansas City, Missouri, and I spent many nights and days in her home before Chris and I married, and she cautiously, quietly, graciously welcomed me into her life and the life of her family.  She became my Mother-in-law the day after we drove by the old Cottonwood on the evening of our wedding rehearsal.

When I found Grandmother Cottonwood, twenty-three years had passed since the happy day we drove by her to celebrate our marriage.  When I found this tree, my soul felt like it was dying.  I was confused, grief-stricken, weary to the bone, unable to find my way forward on any given day.  I sat staring out the window during the days and walked into the chilly nights with nowhere to go—aimlessly trying to flee the pain while at the same time yearning for something.  I had been blindsided—me and my whole family—with no left tackle to see what was coming and to protect us.  Nobody knew what to say or what to do.  One evening as I walked through the park, I walked over to the ample trunk of Grandmother Cottonwood and laid my body against her rough bark.  Her roots were large as trees and created a trough of tenderness for me to recline into, and I felt held, comforted, and understood in her solid silence.

This woman named Ruth became my second mother, as I was four hundred fifty miles from my own mom.  I helped her do dishes and set the table for family meals, decorate the Christmas tree, and move furniture.  She helped me understand my father-in-law, learn how to make a great salad and to live simply and well.  She was my protector when I was pregnant, and she held every grandchild—not just our three—with the tenderness and wonder of a miracle happening before her eyes.

Often on my nightly walks all those years later when I was once again near my home, near my own mom, I would go to the park, to the Cottonwood tree and lean against the deeply grooved bark.  My painful, nervous energy would flow into the ground, swallowed up by the roots of the old tree.  I would look up into the bare winter branches and wonder about all the changes this old tree had seen, all the storms it had lived through, all the celebrations it had witnessed, and all the creatures who had lived among its branches.  My body would calm down, my mind would reset, and my soul would flicker back to life.

In those happy days when I found my husband, when I found Ruth, when I found motherhood, my joy was multiplied in all kinds of ways.  My roots grew down, and my branches grew up and out.  Later, in the hard days, I had lost my mother-in-law, my father-in-law, my bearings, my dreams—my branches were being torn from me and my long-held convictions were being up-rooted—and I found the wise, old Grandmother Cottonwood.

It’s been fifteen years today since Ruth died, and yet she lives on within me because of the many gifts she gave to me and to her whole family.  She gifted us with her laughter, her quiet strength, and her deep love.  I am ever so glad I found her.  I am grateful for finding Grandmother Cottonwood during my hard time, whose quiet, old strength and wise ways helped to heal my battered and broken soul and calmed my weary body.  I am grateful to my Mom, who expertly took these photographs of the beautiful old Cottonwood, since I am one hundred eighty miles from both of them.  At certain times in our lives we find people or trees or animals who save our souls during hard times and enhance our lives during happy times.  Welcome them cautiously, quietly, and graciously.